


A fine line

by Dragonlitterchanger



Series: April Fools - The Joke Is On You [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF John, Blow Jobs, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, First Time, Fluff BDSM, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Hurt Sherlock, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Top John, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2286156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonlitterchanger/pseuds/Dragonlitterchanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning from harassing his brother on a lovefest in Sweden Sherlock faces one of his most dangerous adversaries, and John has to realise some harsh truths about his life and the men in it. Their relationship will be pushed to the edge, and over it in order to survive - together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bringing Sherlock home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [distantstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of a series, it can be read alone, but the jokes will be lost if you don't read the first two. And they may be worth your time, I've heard. Well, ok, actually Mycroft insists - so you better.

  
  
  
  
John put the phone down next to his morning cuppa. Figuring out what the heck was going on with Greg and Mycroft would have to wait, intriguing (and very seriously puzzling) though it was. First a more pressing problem needed attention. He sighed and called out to the kitchen, “Sherlock?”

He was answered by a thundering silence.

“Sherlock? I know you’re in there, answer me!” John insisted.

The silence grew to palpable proportions.

John sighed again, a little heavier this time, and put his hands on his thighs hoisting himself off the sofa and heading to the kitchen. He crossed his arms as he leant against the doorframe, watching Sherlock ignoring him, eyes glued to the microscope.

“Why don’t you answer me when I call out to you?” he queried.

“No need to talk to you, working here, I’ll get back to you later,” Sherlock mumbled.

“No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t.” Sherlock admitted without shame.

“Which is why we’re having this talk now,” John insisted. “Do you not have a medical file or something like that for me to peruse?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock made some minor adjustments to the resolution of the scope.

“You’ve been to Sweden. You’ve been hurt, meeting a wall, huh? And you didn’t even tell me you were leaving,” John growled, letting his annoyance of being kept out of the loop ring through in his voice.

“Go away, you are tedious.”

“The file, Sherlock. Now!” John’s voice brooked no argument and he held out a hand, knowing only too well this gesture would go ignored. It was.

“It’s nothing, don’t bother yourself. I’m fine,” Sherlock insisted.

“Oh, in that case congratulations,” John said, sarcasm dripping like black treacle from his words.

Sherlock actually glanced at John for a fraction of a second, and asked “with what?”

“Your medical degree. Till now I had the impression that I was the physician in residence, but you are apparently qualified to perform self-diagnostics now. So tell me the extent of the original injury and the rate of healing, and do include side effects.” John’s voice had risen just slightly, warning Sherlock that there were limits to his patience.

Sherlock sat up, blinked to clear his eyes, and looked at John with an exasperated visage, conveying his irritation at the interruption to the micro cosmos on his slide. “It really is nothing. I dislocated the shoulder, Mycroft reset it, I had a scan at the local hospital, spent the night there, had some physiotherapy, pointless of course, and left in the morning. The scan result is over there,” he nodded towards a pile on the counter, next to the microwave.

John rolled his eyes at him and strolled to the counter, picking with disgust at an old pizza box, several flyers about the upcoming elections, most of them torn in half by Sherlock, and under that he found an official looking envelope marked ‘Lund University Hospital’. “Thank you,” he uttered and opened the envelope, binning it along with the flyers, as he flipped through the contents, impressed that it was in both Swedish and English. He sensed Mycroft’s hand in this.

He read in silence for a while, humming softly to himself as his lips pursed increasingly, then put the file down and went over to the table currently occupied by Sherlock, placing himself behind him, clearing his throat. “Since you deem this injury insignificant I’m sure you won’t mind me palpating the shoulder a bit,” he said in the way of a warning before poking one fingertip in between Sherlock’s right shoulder blade and the collarbone. The ensuing scream had Mrs Hudson flying up the stairs so fast that she arrived in the flat before she was aware she was going there.

“Oh dear, what happened? What’s happened to Sherlock? John, why are you on the floor?” she panted, taking in the mayhem.

“We’re fine,” Sherlock said, rubbing his shoulder while glaring daggers at John.

“Did you boys have a domestic again?” she tutted.

“We are _not_ a couple Mrs Hudson,” John said automatically as he picked himself off the floor, brushing his trousers off, “and Sherlock has an injury that requires immediate medical attention, so we’re going out. Get your coat Sherlock, we’re going to Barts for a scanning. No. No, that was neither a request nor a suggestion. NOW, Sherlock!”

Under the double scrutiny of John and Mrs Hudson Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked over to the door to retrieve his coat.

John’s anger abated a little when he noticed Sherlock struggling to get the coat on, his arm causing him more pain than he was willing to admit. John relented and took the coat off Sherlock’s hands, draping it around his shoulders instead. “That’ll have to do for now, it’s not that cold out.”

“I’ll bake some nice biscuits for when you get back, deary, for now best do what your doctor says though,” Mrs Hudson patted Sherlock gently on the back, deftly herding him out the door, and down the stairs. John quietly admired her management skills.

“We won’t be long,” Sherlock assured her.

“We might be,” John countered. “That depends on the scan and a few other tests I want to run, so don’t wait up for us,” he winked at her and opened the front door, ushering Sherlock out.

With the coat draped around him Sherlock wasn’t able to raise his arm to hail a cab, so they had to wait a little longer than usual before John had managed to get the attention of one. That did not improve Sherlock’s mood.

What was even worse was the x-ray showing a small, but significant fracture in the shoulder, no doubt due to Sherlock blatantly ignoring the injury and the pain after getting home, damn the man, John thought. The resident’s insistence that they may as well operate right away since Sherlock had habitually fasted all day only elicited a heavy sigh from Sherlock, and a glare from John. He opted for staying awake during the operation, but John got a hold of the surgeon and convinced him that they’d never get through the procedure unless they knocked him out but good. As luck would have it the surgeon knew Sherlock and concurred with John.

Thus John found himself going home alone as Sherlock slept it off in the recovery room at Barts. He had gone over the post op report before relinquishing the care of Sherlock to the staff, satisfied there were no complications. He poked his head in downstairs to inform a worried Mrs Hudson about what had happened before retiring upstairs. He made himself a cup of tea and sat in his chair, enjoying the silence. Lovely silence. And more silence. _Damned silence._ After half an hour John’s skin was crawling with unease. It was one thing to be home alone because Sherlock was chasing around town looking for a clue, a hit, a criminal, a smoke, a new overpriced shirt, a new oversized sheet, hand sewn shoes or whatever else occupied his mind and would have him home in time for tea, but Johns’ thoughts kept focusing on images of Sherlock alone in a hospital bed, unconscious, at the mercy of people who may actually know him, and hence may just not love him to bits. Not that they weren’t all consummate professionals at Barts. No one would hurt him, of course not, but would they take extra proper care of him, like he needed? Would there be a nurse hovering by his bed till he woke, and would she reassure him when he woke up calling John’s name, as he always did when he’d had a fright?

“Right,” John said out loud to the empty room, got up, took his cup to the kitchen, rinsed it out and put it away. “Now what?” He looked around the flat, suddenly clueless as what to do with his time. He turned the telly on and watched three consecutive reruns of Q.I. before falling fast asleep on the sofa.

It was already dark when his phone woke him, the ringtone persistent and annoying. His voice was thick with sleep when he answered it with a gruff hello.

“Dr Watson?” a female voice inquired.

“Yes,” John confirmed, trying to work up a good yawn.

“If we supply you with enough morphine will you please come and take him home?” she asked, her voice trembling a little.

“What’s he done now?” John rubbed his brow and sighed, interrupting her as she cleared her throat to answer him, “never mind, I’ll come down there now. Will it be safe to take him home in a taxi?”

“If not we’ll help you make other arrangements, just get here please. If he calls me an imbecile Neolithic amoeba with the nursing skills of a hung-over debt collector one more time…,” she trailed off and hung up.

John put the phone down and let his eyes glance over the flat, efficiently spotting the high risk areas that could be harbouring infection risks to a freshly operated patient. As he thought, the place was pretty much one big danger zone. Nothing new there, he figured, if it hasn’t killed us yet, it’s not about to do it today either, may as well go and bring the master of the house home. He then mentally kicked himself for thinking of Sherlock as his master, and then mentally patted himself on the cheek, because that is what he usually had to do himself, since Sherlock wouldn’t. _Thank God I’m the sane one_ , he thought, not for the first time that day, and got his coat, heading out the flat.

\----* ----

 

“Sherlock, wake up. No, just a bit, look at me. It’s me,” John intoned, gently slapping the pale cheek for the third time, without a response from the pasty limp ghost in the bed. He turned to the anaesthetics nurse for reassurance. “He really was awake, insulting you blind, mere minutes ago?”

“He was indeed, doctor,” she answered. “He was wide awake, extraordinarily rude, calling me names even my teenager wouldn’t, insisting my incompetent care would kill him before his time, but when he heard your voice demanding entry to the ward he just... slumped into the pillows, and there hasn’t been a peep out of him since.”

“Brilliant. Then I can just leave him here for the night, and...”

“No, please, doctor! You can’t leave him here..." The nurse sounded desperate, and John smirked at her.

“I obviously can’t put him in a taxi in that condition,” he scoffed. “You’ll have to send him home in an ambulance, hmm?” He raised his eyebrows, daring her to contradict him.

“I agree, so does the surgeon, it has been prescribed and they will be here in 20 minutes. Now, how much morphine do you think you’ll need? I am authorised to release it within reasonable amounts,” she said and dangled her keys to the storage.

“Oh, he has quite a high tolerance, both for pain and for morphine. You better let me have the maximum. I’ll return any unused meds, in case there’ll be any. And I’ll need some fresh compresses and bandages,” he added, mentally ticking off his immediate needs for home-Sherlock-care. “You wouldn’t happen to have any anti-depressants handy, huh?” he mumbled.

But she’d heard him. “There are no psychological side effects to this type of operation, he shouldn’t need any.”

“No, but I will in a day or two with him recuperating at home,” John said and gave her a wry smile.

“Yes, hmm, you may,” she smiled back. “Let me just go pack the meds and bandages for you,” she said and disappeared leaving John with the softly snoring Sherlock. A strand of his hair was catching on one of his eyelashes, and John gently tugged it off and away, huffing out a small laugh as Sherlock moaned at the touch. “They sure are cute when they’re asleep,” he quoted to himself under his breath.

The nurse returned with his package just as the ambulance staff arrived. They rolled their gurney up to the bed and deftly took a hold of the sheet under Sherlock, lifting it on a count of 1-2-3, transferring him from the bed with only a soft protesting moan from Sherlock.

“Are you really sure…?” John asked the nurse and pointed at the comatose lump of curly haired fluid bones floating on top of the sheets.

“Please, doctor, we wouldn’t discharge him if it wasn’t absolutely safe. He is quite recovered from the anaesthetics, he’s just very fast asleep. It was, after all, just an arthroscopic operation. He will be right as rain in a day or two. However, we would like you to sign this form that exonerates the hospital from any and all complications due to self-discharge,” she said, holding out a form and a pen to him.

“SELF-dis...?” John began, but resigned. ”Oh, never mind. Just give it to me, I’ll sign it.“ John sighed and did just that.

Armed with a copy of the operation report, the recovery instructions, drugs, bandages and a gurney full of detective he mounted the ambulance and settled into the caretaker’s seat next to the sleepy man, automatically holding out a hand to monitor the pulse as they drove off. Both ambulance staff opted to stay up front. John idly wondered if they knew Sherlock too.

As expected it took an age to get home, London traffic on a Friday night was a nightmare, and it did everything it could to live up to its bad reputation. What was normally half an hour’s drive took them almost a full hour. It was hardly likely that he could get the driver to turn the lights and sirens on for a mere patient transport, so he settled down to the only entertainment available; watching Sherlock’s even breathing, the small frown on the inhale that would move his shoulder just that fraction of an inch that made it uncomfortable and pained, followed by an exhale of relief as the strain loosened and the absence of pain smoothed out the features of his face, making him look almost angelic. And then the procedure would start again with the inhale, the frown, the relief on the exhale and a small, inaudible sound that could almost be mistaken for John’s name.

As the gurney was unloaded from the ambulance Sherlock woke briefly, a moment’s panic and confusion on his face till he saw John standing next to it. “Take me home, please, John,” he asked with a slight slur.

“We are home, Sherlock, we just have to get you upstairs and tucked into bed,” John reassured him and was rewarded with a sleepy smile before Sherlock drifted back into sleep. It only lasted till he was bounced up the stairs and he protested the movement and jolting of the shoulder vehemently.

“It can’t be helped, Sherlock. Let the nice guys carry you as best they can, ok? The staircase isn’t wider than it is,” John soothed, and exhaled when they were finally in the flat and the stream of protests and insults was halted.

“Can you take him through to the bedroom please?” He nodded at the door behind the kitchen and followed them in there, helping Sherlock up to take a single step towards his bed. That proved too much as his leg buckled under him and John found himself supporting his full weight, which albeit wasn’t much. He managed to sit Sherlock down on the edge of the bed, and fluffed a pillow before pushing him gently down, lifting his legs in and tucking the comforter around him. April nights were chilly in London.

“Thank you John, gentlemen,” Sherlock graciously acknowledged the existence of the ambulance staff who just rolled their eyes and bid them goodbye.

“Are you comfortable?” John asked and Sherlock just nodded, sinking deeper into the pillow underneath him. John turned the bedside lamp on, and all other lights out. He left the door open as he went through to the living room where an enormous bouquet of flowers took up most of the coffee table. He looked at the card. As expected it was from Mycroft, and addressed to both of them, so John opened it, reading the message. ‘Brother dear, so sorry to hear that you had to undergo surgery. Had you consulted John Watson immediately upon your return, I am sure it could have been avoided. Let that be a lesson to you. I am staying the weekend in Sweden, but I’ll fly home Sunday. Should you feel up to it, I’ll call in on you Monday. I have arranged for a private physiotherapist who will commence the rehabilitation of your arm on Tuesday. Till then, your devoted brother M.’

John idly wondered how Mycroft could know about the surgery, but the slippery bugger would never tell. He looked at the fragrant flowers; they were of course absolutely gorgeous and way too ostentatious for their flat. They looked as out of a place as a hoover would. He was glad they hadn’t been placed in the bedroom though. There was nothing like the heady smell of fresh flowers that could induce nausea in recently anaesthetized patients.

As John put the kettle on to get a cup of tea his stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that he hadn’t had a bite since breakfast. It was a bit past eight o’clock now, too late to go to Tesco’s express around the corner and shop for a home cooked meal, but just the right time to call out for a pizza. He ordered one with extra everything and watched ‘EastEnders’ while he waited. He’d just started on an episode of ‘Would I lie to you’ when the pizza arrived, and he moved the flowers aside to sit on the sofa and devour it. He had just put a slice on a plate and opened his mouth for the first glorious bite when an unmistakeable sound was heard from the bedroom.

“Djaaawn? Djoon?”

John quickly took one huge bite of the pizza and chewed vigorously as he made his way to the invalid calling out for him. He stuck his head in the door. “What is it, Sherlock? Are you awake?”

“Oh, John. Yes, sure I am. You know me, I don’t sleep much.” John shook his head at this comment, but let it slide. “But I’m hungry, what is that delicious smell?” Sherlock sniffed at the air.

“I’m having a pizza, I haven’t eaten all day.” John explained.

“Well, nor have I, can I have a slice?” Sherlock asked.

“Capitally bad idea,” John suggested. “You’ve fasted, you’ve been under and you’ve only just woken up. A slice of toast and a cup of tea would probably suit you better.”

“Absolutely not. I’m fine! I would really prefer a slice of pizza, it would be so much more palatable,” Sherlock insisted.

John sighed, and relented. Getting Sherlock a slice on a plate he helped him sit up a bit in the bed, put the pizza by his left hand, and arranged newspapers on his lap – as by instructions – so he could read while he ate. He got him a fresh glass of water wishing him bon appetite before returning to his now cooled pizza, finally having some dinner.

Half an hour later he was regretting every bit of today’s actions as he held Sherlock’s forehead with his right hand, rubbing his back against the spasms and convulsions with his left as the very pale detective vomited into the bucket John had hastily delivered after hearing unmistakeable sounds of distress from the bedroom.

“I should have let you stay the night at Barts. I should not have fed you. I should not have let you sit up. I should definitely not have given you pizza, and I should stop listening to you,” he insisted, moving back a little as the heaving stopped and Sherlock slumped back in bed, exhausted.

“M ’fine. You’re fine.” Sherlock lifted his left hand as if to stave off the litany from John. “I’m going to sleep now,” he then announced, closing his eyes, drifting off.

“Excellent!” John stated and stomped off with the bucket, to clean it out in the bathroom. “This is going to be a fantastic weekend!”

It turned out to be the longest 48 hours of his life, and had it not been for Mrs Hudson, Sherlock may not have survived it.

A week later John was longing for the wonderful, quiet days of that weekend.


	2. Pain is not your friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins to appreciate having his own doctor around, and John finally gets an explanation - of sorts - from Greg about what happened in Sweden. But it may be too much information.

By Monday morning John was climbing the walls. Sherlock wasn’t able to dress, wash, keep anything down or entertain himself so they had been stuck in the flat alone together the whole entire complete full extended and prolonged weekend. He had reacted quite badly to the anaesthetics and actually fainted a couple of times while he was out of bed, so John didn’t dare to leave him alone. At least he had managed the pain very well and only asked for a minimum of morphine.

Monday at noon Mycroft came around to view the remnants of his bouquet and his brother. Sherlock had taken the flowers apart, one by one, to test them for any poisonous contents. He had been very disappointed to find out they were all actually edible. John had refused to make a salad of the remainders. Sherlock had sulked. The second Mycroft came in the door John lunged for his coat and fled, murmuring something about getting milk and a bazooka and pounded down the stairs into the sweet freedom of smog-filled London.

He remembered himself after a shopping trip to Sainsbury’s and texted Mycroft, requesting to be informed about when he was leaving, promising to come home and Sherlock-sit then, but only then. He almost wept when Mycroft texted him back within an hour announcing his imminent and urgent departure. He got up from the comfortably freezing bench that he had been enjoying across the street and headed to the front door meeting a pale Mycroft. He allowed himself a moment of light conversation as they passed in the doorway.

“Thank you for the flowers,” he said. “Next time could you make them deadly to either keep him occupied or give me a way out?” he requested.

“I assume you amuse him, I merely hope you can keep it up,” Mycroft said with a tight smile that was working hard at betraying the fact that Sherlock had hurt him badly only seconds ago. “I have only recently discovered the benefits of reciprocal lowered boundaries between entities of the human conviction, may you be as blessed some day. Call my office, or just shout it out loud, if you need further help with his restitution. The physiotherapist will be arriving at nine sharp tomorrow, and will not require a ‘cuppa’, so don’t bother yourself on any account. Good afternoon, Dr Watson,” he said and swanned out, disappearing into the back of a car that was so black that John wondered if there was a hole hovering nearby planning on swallowing the local pub and its contents.

He looked up the stairs and then closed his eyes while mentally bracing himself for another afternoon and evening with an excruciatingly bored Sherlock, wondering if he couldn’t slip a hefty dose of the morphine into a cup of tea, not quite sure if he meant for himself or Sherlock.

He peeked through the door, sighing with relief when he found Sherlock engrossed in a rerun of Dr Who. That could go on for hours. He left him to it and put the groceries away, hoping that this would be the night where Sherlock’s dinner stayed in Sherlock. He’d bought a very mild rice dish for that purpose. He made a big pot of tea and took it through to Sherlock, along with a couple of cups and the sugar bowl. His presence and the tea were acknowledged with a small smile as Sherlock began ladling sugar into his cup. “Want any tea with that cup of sugar?” John wondered out loud and poured tea into the cup as Sherlock pushed it over to him, indicating its readiness to be poured into.

“Very droll, John. Must you say that with every cup I have?” Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer, but snuggled back on the sofa with his cup and turned the sound up, signalling to John that the audience was over. John gratefully sank into his half of the sofa and sipped his tea, enjoying the show.

  
The miracle happened and Sherlock both ate and retained his dinner that night, so they both slept soundly. As promised the physiotherapist turned up in the morning, and Sherlock promptly threw John out, so they could have some privacy. He managed to get down to the clinic and talk to them about a revised schedule, hoping he could go back to, if not permanent work, then at least temp work now and then in a day or two. Then he treated himself to a leisurely walk home, entering the flat just as the health worker left, leaving a pale and exhausted Sherlock for John to take care of.

“John, it hurts,” Sherlock whined and made a face as he tried to find a comfortable position to rest his arm in.

“No wonder, you’ve just been working out, and you’ve been pretty restrained with the pain meds, so let me get you a shot, hmm?” he offered and turned to go upstairs, slow enough to pick up a soft, and surprising “yes, thank you very much, John,” from the exhausted man.

 _Ok, this is bad_ , he thought _, he’s_ _reached the polite stage, and God knows what comes after that_. So he hurried back down with the shot and administered it quickly. He helped Sherlock lie down on the sofa and spread a blanket over him, made him a cup of tea and found the least objectionable programme on the telly. In half an hour Sherlock was fast asleep, finally giving John a few moments to catch up on something he’d put off for far too long. He took his mobile out and sent a text off to Greg Lestrade.

  
_'Greg, please meet me at the Globe Tavern on Marylebone at six so I can buy you a pint and you can explain ALL about your trip, or I shall abuse my powers and have you committed. You know to where – JW_.’

  
He had to wait ten minutes for an answer before he got a short one.  
  
_‘Oh, forced to drink? Ok then. But stop it with bloody initials, nuff that they do it – see you at six’_

 

John didn’t hold out much hope that Sherlock would sleep that long, so he went downstairs to ask Mrs Hudson to look after him, well he did actually say babysit, and she nodded with understanding. “I guess you need a few hours off after that weekend, I’m sure he won’t mind. I’ll have him fresh and perky for your return,” she promised him, and he answered that unconscious would do just as well.

Sherlock was awake when John left, but Mrs Hudson was bustling about, cleaning the place up a bit, for which he was eternally grateful. “Won’t be long, I’ll bring you back a portion of Shepherd’s Pie for your dinner, ok, Sherlock?” He didn’t wait for an answer but hurried on to the pub.

He was early, but didn’t mind – he ordered a pint of 1730 pale ale and gratefully sank down on a hard wooden chair by a small table at the window, actually a nice change from four days on the sofa, and sipped his beer while looking out at the heavily trafficked street. He let his mind drift, mulling over the bittersweet taste, the smells from the kitchen, the fact that he had not for a second contemplated not staying in 221 taking care of Sherlock till he was better, wondering if that made him a fantastic doctor or a stupendous idiot. And then he started feeling guilty – _ridiculously guilty_ – for taking a few hours off to meet a friend. _I have SO earned a pint, heck I’ve earned a barrel_ , he told himself, looking at his watch, wondering why Greg wasn’t here yet because he really ought to start getting home, but then again, it was actually only ten to six, so he could hardly blame Greg for not being there yet, but the sooner he got there, the sooner he could go home and …. _what the fuck is wrong with me!?_ Johns mind came to a screeching halt. Sherlock was 38 years old and perfectly able to manhandle, kill, maim, insult or defame anyone within the borough of Westminster, even with a poorly shoulder – he did not need a retired army captain to look over his, albeit injured, shoulder every second of the day. John was instantly reminded of a song that had plagued them for a couple of months on the radio as his mind told him to ‘let it go, let it go’, and just relax and enjoy his evening. He was so deep in thought that he actually yelped when Greg put a heavy hand on his shoulder and said: “At least you could have bought me a pint, since you insisted!”

 “Greg!” John jumped up, “I’m so happy to see you. What’s your poison? Of course, it’s my treat.”

“Whatever you’re having,” Greg said, shrugging out of his coat, hanging it on a peg on the wall as John got up to get him a beer, and made his way back to the table just as Greg was digging through his pockets for a piece of gum that he popped in his mouth as John sat down.

“Quit smoking again?” John grinned and nodded at the pack of nicotine gum on the table.

“For good this time, I’m afraid. He can smell it from a mile away, not to mention taste it,” he gave John an odd wry smile, picking up his pint. “Salute, my friend, let me just have a few good sips before you fire your burning questions off, huh?” he said and drank deeply, not waiting for an answer from John.

But John had reached the end of his tether and blubbered on as Greg imbibed: “But really, what the fuck, what happened to you and, well him? I take it we are talking about Mycroft? Yeah? And you? In a sort of physical capacity? I mean, you and, well, him? But you’re not gay, are you? And nor is he, I thought - unless it’s with ... I don’t know, giraffes or Martians or other aliens, but with you? Really? What’s it like? No, no don’t tell me about the, you know, but more like, is it true? Oh, for fuck’s sake, put the pint down, not even politicians withhold their answers for this long!” John finished and took a swig of his own beer as Greg exploded with laughter when he put his pint down.

He turned to John and looked at him with an expression John never forgot in his many years to come, as Greg’s huge brown eyes nearly drowned in smile wrinkles accompanied with the simple words of “Oh, John. I love him so much, I had no idea life could be like this.”

John’s response was a mix of awe, surprise and gobsmackedness as he stared open-mouthed at his friend, and then let his face split in a wide grin, raising his glass waiting for his mate to clink his against it. Both glasses survived the encounter and the toast was a merry one.

“So?” John prompted while sipping at his beer.

“So… well, he invited me on a trip. He doesn’t really have many friends, no different from Sherlock there, I think,” Greg explained with a sad smile. “We went to a spa in Sweden, a lovely place, and he wined and dined me, and we had massages and swims, and his conversation, he’s so bloody smart, John, so smart it’s scary.” He paused for a swig of his beer, before continuing, “we had a night where we were a little tipsy and ended up in a Jacuzzi, and I apparently turned him on,” Greg actually blushed and hid half his face with the beer glass, before sipping. “It was all really just a bit of an accident that we, well, hmm, but you don’t want the details, and no I’m not gay. That is to say, I wasn’t gay. Not sure I can say that now,” he looked thoughtful. “If anything I’m Holmes-sexual,” he grinned.  “Oh, and never ever serve grapes if we come around to your place, you’ve been warned. Fuck, the way he eats those can turn a marble statue on.” He grinned as John made a face and held up a TMI-hand.

“What, you’re in love, inspector?” John smiled broadly, happy for his friend, but horribly confused by the turn of events. Straight men didn’t just turn gay overnight, did they?

“I am head over heels, I can barely manage to get out of bed and go to work in the mornings, and I hate not being with him,” Greg confessed. “As a matter of fact, I’m leaving you right after this pint to go home and have dinner with him.”

“Home?” John had unfortunately just taken a swig of beer that was now wasted, decorating the table in small golden beads. “You’ve moved in with him already, you slut?” he almost bellowed.

“Yup, I am now in residence at Rosslyn Hill, and our butler lays out my jacket in the morning, I fucking kid you not.” Greg sniggered like a teenager.

“But your flat, your fridge, your beer cap collection ...” John didn’t really know which leg to stand on, which was moot since he was sitting down anyway.

“Sod that lonely cold place, the fridge has been emptied, by the aforementioned butler actually, and my beer cap collection will be transferred to my coming den, which Mycroft has promised me. ‘Every gentleman needs a room where he can close the door and collect his mind in solitude. You shall have no less.’ he said to me at our first breakfast together in the house,” Greg said dreamily. “We must have you guys over for lunch as soon as Sherlock is mobile again. Is he still pissed off at me for the shoulder thing?”

“So it was you who broke his shoulder, thought so,” John shrugged.

“No, no. I just dislocated it,” Greg explained matter of factly. “He was threatening Mycroft, and I just reacted without thinking. He broke it himself I assume since My had set it and the hospital had cleared him. He probably ignored the instructions of how to take it easy afterwards, right?”

“My?” John asked and shook his head, grinning at the nickname, “but yes, right,” he nodded. “He didn’t even tell me about it till you texted me, and then it was too late, damage done.”

“Figured,” Greg grinned and downed his beer. “So, lunch at our gaff on Saturday? An actual roast, the butler assures me. Will you come?” Greg smiled so broadly that John began to see what had melted the iceman and nodded emphatically.

“Yes, yes, we’ll come, if I can get Sherlock to stir from his sick bed. Which he will!” John grinned. “So you’re really off to the ball and chain already now? Talk about pussy-whipped,” he teased and got up as Greg did.

“It’s all good, John. It’s really good to be with someone like this, with him, someone who cares, needs you and wants you. And I want him too. We’ll talk again at the lunch, but now, I really have to get home because dinner is at seven, and I have plans for him at eight.”

“Again, too much information,” John held up a hand while he helped Greg into his coat. “And still so not enough, you have loads of explanation to do still, my mind is just not computing this yet, and I want to hear it from you, not from his lordship of under-chilled water.”

“Yes, sure, we’ll have time later, take care, tell Sherlock I’m sorry he’s hurt, but not sorry that I slammed him into that wall, he was really asking for it. No one hurts my man. Not kidding,” he grinned with a wave at John as he almost ran out of the pub, looking so happy that John suffered a moment’s sharp pain of envy.

He drained his beer and went to the bar to order two take-away portions of Shepherd’s pie. The barkeep tried to sell him some crap about a ‘new menu’ with fancy food, and John told him that he was more than welcome to come home with him and convince the most conservative eater in Great Britain to try something that deviated from the promised menu, so he relented and went to the kitchen with his order, while John sipped a small glass of beer.

He walked home in less than seven minutes, the meal still hot as he put it on the coffee table in front of them. When asked if he wanted tea or water for the meal Sherlock’s soft whispered answer of ‘morphine, please,’ told John that he was in for a long evening. After the injection Sherlock actually ate all of the plateful of stew and mash, lying back down on the sofa with a happy sigh.

“Thank you, John, it was kind of you not only to cut your evening short but to bring me dinner and pain relief as well. I only hope you weren’t too put off by my brother and Gavin’s unfathomable relationship.”

“Greg!”

“Huh?”

“GREG! You are now the brother-in-law, well kinda almost, to Greg Lestrade, not Gavin, so get the name right, and we’re going over there for lunch on Saturday.” John said as he cleared the table and took the dishes to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock with a season of Dr Who running on the DVD.

“So has Greg answered all your questions about his radically changed sexual orientation?” Sherlock called out to him from the sofa.

“God no, we’ll talk a lot more when we meet on Saturday,” John assured him as he came back from the kitchen.

“Aha, so you like conversations about homosexual lifestyles.”

“Yes. No! I mean, I’m just trying to understand what the hell is going on with Greg and, and, and” John swallowed and dared say it out loud, “Mycroft!”

Sherlock merely smiled and many episodes of Dr Who later tried to keep a good humour about it when the spasms started and John had to make a run for it with the bucket, making it just in time. After Sherlock had emptied his stomach contents John helped him to bed and stayed at his bed side, stroking the sweaty curls away from the forehead as the weakened patient fought to stabilise his breathing and stave off the waves of nausea. John felt sorry for him and wished there was more he could do, but the fact was that Sherlock needed the painkillers that his stomach was so forcefully over sensitive to. He stayed there stroking and talking soft gibberish till he saw the first faint signs of dawn over London and finally heard soft snores from Sherlock. He was too exhausted to move, so he simply flopped down at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, worming his way in between Sherlock’s feet and the hard wood, pulling at the duvet till he wasn’t chilled anymore and asleep before he could give it a second thought.

He woke with a start as Sherlock kicked him in his sleep and he sat up with a harried look, woofing out a breath of air and jumping out of bed to the terror of a new day with an injured flat mate. Sherlock was, however, still asleep so he tiptoed out of there to make a pot of tea, and have a quick shower, running up to get a change of clothes first. It was nearly eleven in the morning and the physiotherapist was due at noon, so John called out to Sherlock to wake up and have some tea and toast and get ready for the training. The answer was a resounding ‘piss offfff’, from the bedroom.

“I love you too, you fucking sod!” John yelled back before he brought Sherlock his cup by his bedside. “Sip this, and then get the heck out of bed. I need to get Mrs Hudson to help me get these sheets off and wash them, and you need a bath. You are not rosy fresh, sir. And I have toast and honey for you in the kitchen when you are done. Again, not a suggestion, not a debate, action now or you can clean up your own mess next time you decide to break the world barf record.”

Sherlock actually looked contrite. “I’m sorry, John. I do appreciate your help. I am aware that you went beyond the call of duty last night, I remember you sitting here till I slept, did you even get to bed yourself?” he asked.

“No,” John admitted. “I slept in here, at the foot of your bed; I was too bloody tired to make it upstairs. Won’t happen again.”

“Not a problem, John, sleep where you will,” Sherlock shook it off and got out of bed, using his good arm to rise off the edge. "See you in a bit,” he said and disappeared into the bathroom.

The physiotherapist, a nice enough bloke in his thirties called Tom, arrived while they were still having breakfast, and John took him aside to tell him to go easy on Sherlock. “He can’t handle the morphine, so don’t push him to the point of pain. And yes, you can’t tell on him, he won’t let on, so just treat him like you would let’s say an 80-year-old lady with the same problem, ok?” 

“Not that easy, mate”, Tom said, “His brother told me that if I can’t produce results fast he’ll get bored and just start his own training programme, which could permanently damage the shoulder."

“I am in the flat, and I can hear you, you know” Sherlock chimed in, his trademark chuckle made them both smile.

“Then will you do me the courtesy and say it out loud when it starts to hurt today?” Tom asked.

“Yes he will,” John said. “Right, Sherlock?”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said, walking into the living room, looking at Tom. “Shall we begin?”

 

Wednesday turned out to be a great day. No pain, no morphine, no barfing and John got to sleep in his own bed.  
  
Thursday the call came.

 

 


	3. His only friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Thursday and there is finally some progress with the shoulder, but unfortunately there is trouble in Kensington, and it is unavoidable to call in Sherlock.

 

”Are you feeling better today?” John ventured as Sherlock turned up for breakfast without being prodded.

“Mmm, mmm,” he answered, shrugging carefully as he sat down by the table in the living room.

“Really? You look at lot better. Toast?”

“Three, please,” Sherlock said as he began heaping sugar into a cup.

“Oh, you are better,” John smiled. “Good, then I can ask you a few hard questions.”

Sherlock looked up at him, batting his eyelashes, trying out the ‘oh, but John, I am merely a lost puppy dog-look’. This time it failed.

John set the first two pieces of toast down in front of him and filled the sugar cup from the teapot before he continued. “The hospital in Sweden, hmmm?”

Sherlock recognised the rise in pitch in John’s voice and allowed himself a small, tight smile as he sipped the tea, apparently aware of what was coming. He answered in the form of one raised questioning eyebrow.

“The file. Your file. It only mentions the scan result. Not a word about keeping you in a ward, let alone any physiotherapy in the morning. You lied to me, Sherlock.” John’s voice sounded fairly stern.

“Apologies. I tend to forget that you have a quite astute mind. However average it may be, you seem to benefit from the proximity to me and have become almost impressive in your deductions,” Sherlock said, sounding anything but contrite. “As a matter of fact, I thought my presence in this apartment might have given it away.”

“Oh, bull. I don’t know when you left, so I could hardly notice how long you had been gone when you got back, can I? You lied to me. That is quite serious, Sherlock. Look at me, dammit!” John now had that angry timbre in his voice that Sherlock really resented. “To me! I don’t care if you think you can get away with lying to your roommate, but to your doctor? You should bloody know better! You know only too well that doctor and patient relations are based on trust. And apparently, you don’t trust me!”

“Oh, John, it’s not that I don’t trust you. Of course, I do. I have trusted you with my life on several occasions and still do. I merely wanted to put the whole thing behind me, and I erred in my haste. I had underestimated the injury, and I am grateful to you for correcting it. The damage could have been a lot worse if I had let it go on much longer. You were right,” he looked up with as honest an expression as he could muster, managing a smile at John, then lowering his mouth to his cup, mumbling “but only this time.” 

“I am right about your health every time, and don’t you forget it,” John intoned, forcefully buttering a piece of toast of his own, then heaping jam on it. “Now will you promise not to withhold information about pain, illness, injuries, fractures and whatever else you manage to inflict on yourself from now on?” John regained eye contact and held his gaze as steady as he could against the rainbow-orbs blinking back at him.

“Of course, John,” Sherlock said and turned away, flicking the newspaper open, perusing the headlines.

Not sure if he should feel vindicated or mollified John shrugged and reached over Sherlock, pulling the sports section out from the middle of the papers, settling down with it. The rest of the breakfast was a quiet but comfortable affair.

 

Tom arrived at noon and he and Sherlock worked out for an hour or so while John picked up some groceries, and enlisted the help of Mrs. Hudson to clear the fridge out for once, relishing the fact that Sherlock had been home bound, and not able to venture to Bart’s for disgusting body parts to fill it with. It was almost like having a real kitchen when they were done. If you just ignored the rest of it.

They were munching on a couple of sandwiches, Sherlock assuring John that he had no further need of morphine and could manage a meal when Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He picked it up and turned the sound off. “Only Mycroft,” he shrugged.

Then John’s phone buzzed, he dug it out of his pocket. 'MH calling', it said on the display. “Now he’s trying me, should I …?” he asked.

“No, ignore it. He’s either calling about my shoulder or the lunch on Saturday. Regardless, I have no need to talk to him today.” Sherlock finished his sandwich and got up to wash his hands.

John’s phone buzzed again. “Now it’s Greg calling me!” he called out to the kitchen. “I’m taking this.”

John answered the phone and all Sherlock could hear was a few comments from John, and he didn’t like them.

“Oh, no. Sounds bad,” John said. “Really, today? I don’t know, I’ll check. But let me have it.” John rummaged around the table till he found a pen and he scribbled something down. “All right, well I’ll see what I can do. See you.” He rang off and looked up at Sherlock, now hovering near the kitchen door.

“What is it, John?” he demanded.

“You know that columnist I always love to read and shout at? Langdale Pike? He’s gone missing, apparently he was having lunch with…”

“Mycroft, obviously. So where is Mycroft waiting for me?” Sherlock interrupted as he pulled his housecoat off, going to his room to get dressed in a proper outfit for the first time in days.

“In Kensington, Wycombe Square, I wrote down the …” again he was interrupted.

“Yes, yes. I know the rest. Go get your coat, and your gun, I’ll meet you in four minutes.” The door to the bedroom slammed shut and John shrugged and walked upstairs to retrieve his gun, relieved that the boredom was broken.

Sherlock was already downstairs when John got back. He noted that he had forgone a jacket and that the coat was just draped over his shoulders.

“Still hurts a bit, huh? Sure you don’t want…?” he offered with a nod upstairs.

“Absolutely not, John. I must have my wits about me. A bit of pain will just sharpen it. The arm will heal in its own time,” he said as he opened the front door, inhaling deeply of the London air as he finally stepped outside.

He hailed a cab by glaring at it, actually impressing John a bit, though he kept quiet about it. “37 Wycombe, and it’s urgent,” Sherlock said as they both climbed in.

There was a civilian policeman at the door when they got to the house. John swore he could smell the money. He looked up at the impressive building, and then admired the perfectly manicured flowers and small bushes around the entrance. You just knew there was a garage somewhere with a Jaguar, or perhaps a Rolls lurking about. They were told to go straight in, and just inside the door, Greg met them, a worried expression on his face.

“Where’s my brother?” Sherlock asked before Greg could open his mouth.

“In the morning room, the one over there to t…” he began but was halted with a curt “Thanks,” from Sherlock who was already opening the door.

“So Mycroft, how long has he been gone?” he started without preamble making Mycroft shoot out of the sofa he had been sitting in, deep in thought.

“Ah, you came. Kind of you. I think we could use your talents to the best effect here. I am afraid it could be serious, you see I was supposed to luncheon with Lang yesterday, but he was a no-show. I have called and called since then, but no answer. Greg was kind enough to let me in here today, but he is not here.” Mycroft actually seemed a tad shaken.

“I take it you have checked all his usual hangouts?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, the paper, the club, the tennis hall, no one has seen him for at least two days. His employer was about to raise the alarm himself when I called.”

“And he couldn’t have acquired new hobbies that you don’t know about?” Sherlock wondered, idly turning a few porcelain bowls over, examining their labels.

“No. I know Lang’s ways. He has been my best friend since Eaton,” Mycroft reminded him.

“He has been your only friend,” Sherlock retorted. Mycroft grimaced at the barb.

“Yes, you are right,” he sighed, dejectedly.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock nodded. “Not so good, then. But it’s hardly the first time he’s stood you up, is it?” Sherlock wondered.

“Oh God no, he’s done it quite frequently. He’s as stable as mercury. One whiff of a woman and he’s off in that direction,” Mycroft shuddered slightly.

“Have you talked to his wife? Err… Nancy?”

“Nicole. She is still posted to Singapore. Should be there the year out, last I heard. It’s a delicate business with the government of… but never mind that. Let’s keep to poor Lang. When Greg and I got here the alarm was on, the dog was home and starved and the bed unmade but cold. The kitchen is immaculate, so he hasn’t eaten here, but there are quite a few empty wine bottles out there.” Mycroft nodded at the room across the hall. “Also,“ and now he visibly swallowed, “there is some blood spatters upstairs, outside the bedroom, but not much. Will you have a l…. Sherlock!” Mycroft sighed, exasperated as Sherlock took off upstairs without a word.

John was still chatting to Greg in the hallway, but they both headed upstairs when they heard Sherlock call out.

 “John! I need a flashlight. And a sample bag. And someone throw Anderson out, please.”

“Here,” John said, handing him the bags and the little light he always carried with him as Greg talked softly to Anderson, convincing him to wait downstairs.

Sherlock started investigating with his almost usual fervor, with the exception of having trouble using his right arm. John had to assist several times picking items out of Sherlock’s coat pockets and cutting out blood samples from the carpet.

“Mycroft! Mycroft?” Sherlock cried out after almost thirty minutes. “Oh, for God’s sake, where did he go? Oh, there you are. How long has Lang been having this affair? And does he have more than one mistress currently?”

Mycroft lingered in the doorway to the bedroom. “I am not privy to Lang’s sexual excursions, thank you. I mean, I know they have an open marriage, no doubt due to Nicole’s long overseas postings, but I have particularly asked him to keep me uninformed about his dalliances. I have always found them … tedious. He has an absolutely perfect, very intelligent and diplomatic wife, why he has to cow tow to his lesser base instincts…”

“Yes, be that as it may, but fact is he does have a new lover, just look at the number of condom packs lying around the bedroom, not to mention the state of the sheets, the towels in the bathroom, and the disarray of his personal calendar, everything annotated in detail except for the dates he is with her. They are just marked off with an x, whereas his lunch with you is pinned out in detail, name, time, place; days the cleaning staff are here marked off with a big line down the middle, clearly indicating that she could not come around, but still detailing the name of the cleaners, which reminds me, Greg, I will need to talk to all of them, please arrange it. For tonight. Tell them to come to Baker Street. For now, I wouldn’t worry too much, Mycroft, he is probably in the countryside, tucked up in a cozy pub with his lover, cognac, and an open fire and will turn up with his tail between his legs, waggingly asking for your pardon. Now, where is the dog? I may need to talk to her. Here John, take these samples to Bart’s. I need DNA on the blood and the semen and vaginal excrete samples and a basis set of analysis. I’ll see you back at Baker Street at seven for the staff interviews. Need you to take notes, off you go.” And with that, he disappeared downstairs in search of the dog.

 

\-    *  -

Sherlock wasn’t home when John got back from Bart’s, but he turned up after about half an hour.

“What the heck is that?” John exclaimed when he walked through the door.

“It’s Gladys. She’ll be staying here,” Sherlock answered, bending down to take the leash off the brown and white spaniel, who immediately started sniffing the carpet, inch by inch.

“We’re not having a dog, Sherlock.” John folded his arms, trying out his army voice.

“It’s not our dog. It’s Langdale’s, but we couldn’t let it stay alone in the apartment, and Mycroft obviously can’t have it. Besides, it is, in fact, a witness to whatever has been going on, so I need it close by for this investigation. Would you please feed it whatever dogs eat? I’ll be in the kitchen, I have several specimens to examine,” Sherlock uttered, ignoring John’s flailing arms and feeble protests. His mind had already switched to the role of biochemist at work.

“Fine, never mind me. I guess you don’t even want to know when we’ll get results from Bart’s?” John asked as he shrugged his coat back on. It wasn’t like Sherlock would bring home dog food simply because he’d brought home a dog.

“Obviously I need to know, yes. Do tell,” Sherlock shouted from his bedroom where he was donning a protective housecoat.

“Well, the blood types and base tests will be ready at noon tomorrow, but we won’t get the DNA results until Monday, they’re backed up,” John called back. “And I’m going out shopping, does Gladys have any preferences?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Ask her,” he called back, but John hadn’t waited for an answer and was already down the stairs.

Greg had been successful in tracking down the cleaning crew that serviced Langdale’s house, so a little past seven they arrived together. John had fed the dog upon his return from the market, and then shut it in Sherlock’s room, so they could have some privacy.

Sherlock grilled them for a solid hour, but they were so boringly discreet in their answers, no doubt used to confidentiality clauses in their contracts with the Kensington clientele, that they learned next to nothing from them. They cleaned the house twice a week, they had never known any women to be around, apart from Mrs. Pike, of course, they had noticed no changes in behaviour or habits, they had not been cancelled because of holidays, as a matter of fact, they were booked for Friday, and they had already got paid for the month.

Sherlock was in a foul mood when they left, and his arm was throbbing. He refused to eat dinner, claiming he was in case-mode, so John just left him to his musings, going about making dinner for himself.

Around nine o’clock Sherlock came to life, announcing he was going out. “I need to talk to members of my homeless network,” he explained.

“Then take the dog with you, she’ll need an evening walk,” John suggested.

“No, she’ll slow me down. You walk her,” Sherlock ordered a stunned John, just as he grabbed his coat and walked out the door.

“Glad to see you’re back to your normal self, you wanker,” John shouted after him and went to Sherlock’s bedroom to retrieve the dog. He briefly considered leaving it in the bedroom, hoping it would do its business in Sherlock’s bed, but that made him feel sorry for the dog, so he relented and got the leash out, and received a big lick on the nose as a reward when he bent down to put it on .”I love you too,” he muttered as he got his coat on, “come on then, fleabag, let’s go piss on London.”

Sherlock returned so late that John had already gone to bed, leaving Gladys curled up and snoring in his chair, and when he came downstairs in the morning Sherlock was huddled over the microscope, answering all questions in monosyllables, so John left him to his work and took Gladys for a morning walk, sharing a bun with her at Starbuck’s, she, however, refused the coffee.

They strolled through Regent’s park enjoying a fine spring day, John fed the ducks and Gladys barked at them. They made a fine team, she seemed to think. Around noon he got a text from Sherlock.

_\- Bring me a menu from Pret A Manger, the size chart from Hugo Boss and some form of quick, efficient sustenance. A pie, possibly. And cancel Tom. – SH._

John looked at it exasperated and answered.

_\- Yes, your highness. Do you want all that delivered in a Rolls Royce, or is it ok if I take a cab?_

In ten seconds Sherlock replied.

_\- Irrelevant – SH._

He texted Mycroft to cancel the physiotherapy since he didn’t have Tom’s number. It would actually do Sherlock good to rest the shoulder for a couple of days. Then he took a cab to the Lakeside Shopping centre for the menu, and size chart. He had to fib quite a lot to get the chart, and both Gladys and his comfortable, green plaid shirt had to suffer some condescending looks from the shop staff, but he managed never the less. He took a cab back to Baker Street, putting his shopping down on the kitchen table and letting Gladys off her leash. She immediately jumped into John’s chair, turned around in it five times, and lay down content, her arse resting on his Union Jack pillow.

“Brought you a couple of slices of Banana Cake from Pret, will that do you?” he asked Sherlock.

“Hmm, fine,” Sherlock muttered and held out a hand for the other items.

John slapped the menu and chart into it. “A word of thanks wouldn’t hurt you,” he barked.

“Langdale Pike can thank you, when and if I find him,“ Sherlock retorted.

“So you think he’s off with a woman somewhere?” John wondered as he put the kettle on.

“It is very likely, he is quite a womaniser. On the other hand, he could also be in grave trouble, in fact possibly already dead, but I need the DNA results to establish that.” Sherlock said and studied the menu closely.

“Oh, and that’s not ready till Monday. Guess we can have the weekend off then. Think you can manage to put your case-mode on hold for a few hours for the lunch tomorrow? If it’s still on?”

“Yes, it’s on. Mycroft insists unless there are developments in the case, of course, so we’re off to Rosslyn Hill tomorrow. The car will pick us up at noon sharp.” Sherlock informed him.

“So you’re coming without a fight?” John wondered, a bit puzzled.

“My brother in a relationship? Wouldn’t miss it. I have to see what that’s all about, and his cook makes a fantastic roast, so if I must eat… well, that’s worth the effort,” he mused.

They enjoyed an afternoon tea with Sherlock eating both pieces of banana cake before he returned to the kitchen and the work. Around seven John had a pizza, leaving a slice in the fridge for Sherlock, just in case. He emerged around eight, actually volunteering to walk Gladys, and when he returned smelling of cigarette smoke John knew why. “You berk. You’ll only make it harder to quit again,” John chided him.

“No idea what you’re talking about, John. Now, some Dr Who before bed?” he asked and plopped a DVD in, sitting down on the sofa next to John. Gladys jumped up, in the end, walked across Sherlock’s legs and burrowed in between them, wedging her nose between their knees, asleep before they could agree on who got to scratch her behind the ears.

Saturday loomed, so they retired fairly early to bed; Gladys, unceremoniously declaring that she was sleeping with Sherlock, jumped into his bed, and Sherlock shrugged and accepted his fate.

 

 


	4. A break from the case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family lunch, sort of. John finally learns a few secrets about how to feed Sherlock, and once again they are surprised by the extent of the hobby’s the Holmes boys undertake. And Greg has a surprise to show John.

The car arrived promptly at noon, and they got in, making Gladys stay on the floor. They had debated whether to bring her or leave her alone, but decided to take her along. Mycroft would simply have to suffer the dog hair attack on his furniture. After all, he had staff that could remove it again.

It was a quiet ride. John could tell that Sherlock was torn between the case, the desire to see his brother and the dread to see his brother. John on the other hand was bursting with curiosity, and also quite eager to eat a proper home cooked meal; his life hadn’t exactly been crammed with those lately. He didn’t count his own cooking among them.  
  
At the Rosslyn Hill house the morning had been spent in preparation. Greg had offered to bake a cake, but Mycroft had insisted that the cook be allowed to prepare Sherlock’s favourites. But he assured Gregory that he would love to bake anything with him the next day. Anything, he had emphasized. Instead they had spent a long time in the cellar picking out the perfect wine, one that they would all love, thus not too heavy and not too simple. They settled for a Beaujolais Crus Chénas, and opened three bottles to let them air. And then they spent a long time in the cellar, enjoying the fact they were _alone_ in the cellar and had an hour till the guests got there.  
  
Greg had pleaded with Mycroft to dress casually, and had managed to keep his apparel down to a pair of black slacks and a blue shirt, without neither tie, tie pin nor cufflinks, sleeves smartly rolled up, while Greg sported a pair of worn jeans and a long sleeved black polo. Mycroft actually thought he did pretty well keeping his hands off Gregory’s arse at all times. Almost.  
  
Mycroft looked appropriately shocked as he opened the door and beheld the dog, but to his credit he recovered quickly and called in an assistant to walk, feed, bathe and play with the dog till further notice. Gladys seemed to approve of the newly appointed assistant slash slave and followed her gladly, tail wagging away. Sherlock called after her to inform her that the dog was a crucial witness to a possible crime, and was not to be left unattended in public. Gladys barked back that he was not to worry, she had it covered. John shook his head at the pair of them.  
  
Mycroft then proceeded to be the perfect host. There was a blazing fire in the living room where he had prepared Mimosas, knowing that to most people noon was too early on a Saturday for a proper drink. He did, however, offer an alternative Bloody Mary but they all vehemently declined a need for something that drastic. Mycroft handed out a flute of the fresh sparkly drink to each guest, and then sat down next to Greg, who promptly placed a hand on his thigh. Mycroft smiled slightly, Sherlock only coughed very lightly, before sipping three times in short succession. John smiled, raised his glass and said “Salute, thanks for the invitation, you guys,” inwardly howling at the prospect of calling Mycroft a ‘you guy’. He doubted he’d ever get that chance again.  
  
They indulged in small chat about the weather, sports, hunger, lunches, anything but the ongoing case for about twenty minutes while sipping their drinks, and then a discreet rap at the door heralded the appearance of the butler, Miles, who announced that the luncheon was served in the dining room. Greg got up first, holding out a hand for Mycroft to take, and Sherlock, not wanting to be outdone did the same for John. John stared at the hand, his jaw falling open, but he decided to go along with it, figuring there would be some form of Holmesian logic behind the gesture.  
  
“Come along then, John,” Sherlock said merrily as he lead the way to the dining room. He even beat Mycroft to it, holding out a chair for John before Mycroft could mirror the gesture for Greg. John and Greg shared amused glances across the table as they sat down, but offered no comments. John was absolutely clueless about what to say anyway.  
  
There was no starter to the meal, unless you counted the brief appearance of the chef, a fairly round, stern looking man in his sixties, who came into the room pulling Sherlock out of his chair, giving him a bear hug. “You skinny bugger! Too bloody skinny since you left my care. If you don’t eat my food today you’ll go over my knee, and don’t you forget it, young master. So good to see you. Come out and say goodbye before you go. Oh, and I know which plate is yours, I marked it, so no leftovers!” he said as he let Sherlock drop back down into his chair with a bemused expression.

“I’ll find the mark, you know,” Sherlock promised and winked at the big man as he retreated to the kitchen. Both Greg and John giggled, but Mycroft just smiled indulgently, shaking his head ever so slightly, amused by the exchange.  
  
Miles went around the table filling their glasses with the Beaujolais and then brought out the roast on a large cutting board, placing it on the serving table. They all ah’ed and uhm’ed and applauded, knowing that the chef would probably be listening.  
  
Next he brought out a large, gorgeously decorated plate with Yorkshire puddings, small potatoes, steamed carrots and a virtual swimming pool worth of gravy in a large porcelain bowl.  
  
The roast was pre-carved, so he proceeded to arrange a few slices on each plate with the vegetables and puddings, filling the latter generously with the gravy. He served the guests first, and then the household, Mycroft and Greg.  
  
John looked down at his plate, sucking in his cheeks to stop himself from drooling and ventured a joke. “You know the difference between gravy and sauce?” he asked. Everyone, including the butler looked clueless, so John offered the answer, “There’s never enough sauce, but always plenty of gravy.” Miles actually snickered, but quickly disguised it as a cough.  
  
“It’s all right, Miles,” Mycroft said, “Even I understood that one. Very droll, John,” he complimented. “But rest assured that even sauce is in ample supply at my table.” He lifted his lips in his trademark smirk, which he lost two seconds later when Greg leant over to unceremoniously kiss it away.  
  
“Greg, kindly spit my brother out before you ruin my appetite,” Sherlock begged him as he arranged his napkin on his lap and dug into the food.  
  
This was the first time that John had seen Sherlock eat while on a case, and he made a mental note to get some recipes and tips from the chef before going home. “This really is a treat, Mycroft, I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. Your house is fantastic.”  
  
“Isn’t it just,” Greg enthused. “I gotta show you the place after lunch, I have a bit of a surprise for you,” he nodded in John’s direction to indicate him.  
  
“Oh, really? What?” John asked before continuing to stuff his face.  
  
“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, now would it?” Greg grinned, and crammed a quarter pudding into his mouth with an exhale of appraisal.  
  
John just hummed agreement around a big bite, cleaning his plate up. Miles appeared on cue and offered seconds, which both Greg and John happily accepted. Mycroft and Sherlock declined.  
  
They were on the third bottle of wine when John and Greg finally surrendered, unable to swallow another bite. They both leaned back in their chairs, and John raised his glass. “My compliments to the chef. Undoubtedly the best roast I have ever eaten, and those Yorkshire puddings, Jesus, how does he get them that fluffy?”  
  
Mycroft smiled, “I shall pass it on presently. Now, who wants coffee with the dessert?”  
  
“What is it?” Sherlock wondered, idly twirling his napkin on the table.  
  
Mycroft beamed at his little brother. “Just chef’s version of Banoffi pie.”  
  
Sherlock sat up straight, smiling broadly. “Is it my birthday?”  
  
“Have you deleted that as well?” John snorted.  
  
“Probably,” Sherlock shrugged, “it’s immaterial for my work. Unless the riff raff of London’s underground should decide to buy me a present, an assassin most probably.”  
  
“We may not need the London riff raff for that, there are days where I’ll volunteer myself,” John offered.  
  
“How kind of you, John, but no, Sherlock, it’s no one's birthday. Chef was just really glad to hear you were coming to lunch.” Mycroft acknowledged John’s offer with a slight nod, and repeated his question of coffee, all three raised a finger, so he rang a little bell on the table, and Miles appeared to take the order.  
  
“So, that’s your favourite pie, Sherlock?” Greg wondered. “You have a sweet tooth, huh?”  
  
“Well, Greg, I have been raised on this particular recipe, but only as a treat for Christmas and festive occasions. Is this the first time you are having it here?”  
  
“Yeah, ‘course. Look at this greyhound I live with, does he look like a man that eats any kind of pie regularly?” Greg leant over and rubbed Mycroft’s taught belly.  
  
“Occasionally,” Sherlock said, dryly.  
  
“Sherlock!” There were all kinds of warnings in Mycroft’s voice and glare towards the baby brother.  
  
Sherlock held up a hand in surrender, and smiled at Greg. “You are a lucky man, Greg, he’s in great form.”  
  
“Sherlock?” Greg sounded puzzled, “what’s up with my name? You have got it right all day, how come you suddenly remember it?”  
  
“John told me to,” was Sherlock’s matter-of-fact answer, leaving John and Greg making _wtf-_ faces at each other, unnoticed by the two brothers, whose attention was on Miles who just then entered with the pie.  
  
“What the… is that?” John pointed. “Is that a tiered banoffi pie? How does he do that?”  
  
“Chef has his secrets, and his secrets they will stay,” Mycroft smiled, and Sherlock positively beamed. At the pie.  
  
Miles cut three reasonably sized pieces from the lower tier, and one enormous slice that covered all three tiers and handed that to an utterly shining Sherlock. John raised an eyebrow at his minor slice as it was handed to him, and Mycroft explained “Sherlock ever only eats one piece, or helping of anything, whereas anyone else can have as many helpings as they like. It’s a principle of his, so when it comes to the pie we’ve always helped him along a little.” He winked at John. Actually winked.  
  
John nodded with understanding and grinned at Sherlock who was already making headway into the mountain on his plate, and started on his own, almost moaning out loud with the sweet and sticky taste, complemented very well by the best coffee he had ever had. They ate in silence, and when he was done John had to admit that the reasonably sized pie had been quite sufficient for him; he was well stuffed, he announced, and Greg concurred.  
  
They sat around a while longer, finishing the coffee, waiting for Sherlock to finish his pie, just talking about nothing really. Mycroft nodded at Miles when Sherlock finally put his fork down, and the table was cleared of plates, the coffee cups refilled.  
  
“Happy, Sherlock?” Mycroft enquired.  
  
“More than satisfactorily replenished, thank you brother. I think I have done my duty by chef, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
“Quite. Perhaps we should move about a bit after such a meal? I have recently started on three new strains of roses in the greenhouse. I imagine you would…?”  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “Oh? Yes, certainly. I’d like to take a look. Are they domestic cultivars?”  
  
“Well, they are now,” Mycroft laughed lightly, “Two are hybrids, and one is a miniature. Shall we?"  
  
“I think I’ll stay here and show John around, if you don’t mind,” Greg suggested, and then thought he’d better check with John. “Unless you are terribly interested in rose hybrids, and such?”  
  
“No offence, Mycroft, I bet they are glorious, but I don’t know the first thing about flowers, so I’ll stay here with Greg if it’s all the same, but thank you for a truly glorious meal,” John smiled. He felt so sated and heavy that he wondered whether he would have to be surgically removed from the chair.   
  
Thus the two brothers walked into the garden on the Saturday spring afternoon while Greg took John on to the promised tour of the house.  
  
They started in the kitchen where a maid was just starting the dishwasher, as the chef was enjoying the last of the Beaujolais with Miles.  
  
“Oh, that lunch. Just …wow.” John said to him. “Thank you so much.”  
  
“So the little one ate all of his pie?”  
  
The mental image struck John hard. “ _The little o_ …? Yeah. No, not how I think of him usually, but yes, yes he did,” John confirmed. “I don’t think I have ever seen him consume so many calories in such a short time. Any chance I could have the recipe? You know, for the worst of his hunger strikes?”  
  
“Oh, you’re the one? You’re taking care of Master Sherlock now?” chef wondered, dancing around the issue of the recipe.  
  
“Not my master, just my flatmate,” John clarified, frowning a bit, just a bit.  
  
“As long as you take care of him, it’s not my business how you do it. So tell you what, if he’s in a bad way, give me a call,” he paused to tear a corner of a newspaper and scribbled a phone number on it, handing it to John, “and I’ll send a pie, or something like that, over. All right, mate? We gotta keep the little one fit for fight, eh?” He grinned and raised his glass to John who happily pocketed the phone number.  
  
“Thanks, guys,” Greg interrupted, “but we’re off on the grand tour now, so thanks for a great lunch.” And with that he pushed John out of the kitchen with a laugh and took him around the many rooms, enjoying John’s obvious admiration of the four poster bed, offering no tales from its depths. Laughing out loud at Johns’ intake of breath at the pool table, the mural in the hallway, the soft chairs in the morning room, the array of scents in the master bathroom, he waited with the best for last.  
  
“Fancy a pint?” he asked John.  
  
“God, yes. But wouldn’t Mycroft murder us, well, have us murdered, if we slip off to the pub now?” John wondered.  
  
“Oh, he most certainly would.” Greg agreed, too easily. “Remember he promised me a den of my own? He’s already bloody had it done. One of the guest rooms has been cleared and is now mine.” Greg opened the oak door to a cosy room, a small fire going at the hearth. “And when I got back from the pub on Tuesday he asked why we’d met there, and not in my office, or a decent wine bar. I had to explain to him at length that full blooded British men like me, and you, are genetically disposed towards a pint of beer now and then.” Greg ushered John in and closed the door behind them.  
  
“And then Wednesday morning a bloody design crew from Carlsberg turns up and asks me where I want my beer bar!” Greg laughed and went to the far corner where an imposing oak bar with three taps towered. “So, what’s your poison? Stout, lager or bitter?” he said as he held up a pint glass.  
  
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”? John came over to the bar, running his hands over the shining hard wood almost possessively. “He gave you your own bloody pub?”  
  
“Just a bar, as My said,” Greg grinned with pride at his gift. “He figured it was more likely to keep me in nights. Bloody right too,” he nodded as he poured himself a bitter, “so, what’re you having?”  
  
“I… I… well, give me a stout then.” John grinned, getting a little bit jealous of Greg’s new lifestyle.  
  
Greg finished pouring the beers and took them over to a soft, deep sofa with a little coffee table in front. He grabbed a remote and pressed a button and the wall over the bar came alive with a football match. John glowered a little, but happily took his beer, and toasted Greg.  
  
“Congratulations, you lucky sod. You must be something else in bed to get this a week after you’ve moved in, you slut,” he grinned.  
  
“He gets whatever he wants. And I’m glad to give it,” Greg beamed. “How about you. When are you going to get around to it?”  
  
“What? Me, get laid? Bloody never. I seem to be a natural female repellent,” John snorted.  
  
“Then forget them,” Greg suggested, sipping his beer.  
  
“Forget who?” John puzzled  
  
“Women, of course,” Greg answered. “If you have such rotten luck with them, get on with your actual love life and get laid.”  
  
“Ok, now you lost me,” John admitted.  
  
“Seriously? You two have never considered…? I mean, it would be bloody convenient, and it’s not as if he isn’t easy on the eyes, and ….”  
  
“What? Are you talking about Sherlock?” John exploded. “Me and Sherlock? Having it off?"  
  
“Why not?” Greg shrugged, “you already live together. Half the world thinks you’re a couple. In a sense you are, too. He’s definitely not into women, and you can’t catch them, so make use of what you have.”  
  
“Only I.Am.Not.Gay! Should I have it embroidered on my sweater?” John asked, not bothering for a second to hide the sarcasm in his voice.  
  
“Well, I’m.Not.Gay.Either!” Greg spat back at him, “but I’ve gotten really good at sucking dick lately, and I love it.”  
  
“Greg! For fuck’s sake!”  
  
“Yes, John?” he grinned.  
  
“I can’t just… I don’t know,” John shrugged, “can’t just turn on a desire for men. I don’t work like that.”  
  
“Of course you don’t, but Sherlock is not “men” in general, he is quite outstanding, like Mycroft, you got to admit that much.”  
  
“Yeah, of course they are extraordinary, but that doesn’t mean they are nice. I mean, you do know they are smoking in the garden right now, right?“  
  
“Of course they are,” Greg snorted.  
  
“Doesn’t that piss you off? You quit the cigarettes for him, and then he lies to you?”  
  
“He didn’t lie. He does grow roses, and I don’t mind the occasional fag. He does after all come back and literally smells of roses, not ashtray. Don’t ask me how he does it.”  
  
“Well, Sherlock then…”  
  
“Didn’t lie either. Mycroft told me that Sherlock had written three instruction manuals about the care of roses in the British climate by the time he was twelve. There’s just not room in the flat for him to have any. Otherwise it would probably be crammed full of them. You really should come and see the greenhouse, they are quite stunning,” Greg beamed proudly.  
  
“Holmses and their hobbies,” John shook his head.  
  
“Yes, and now I’m one of them, why don’t you try it too?” Greg prodded him, taking a deep swig of his beer.  
  
“Oh, come off it Greg. I’m not that… desperate. I like real sex.” John was glad he had unlimited access to beer, he might need it the way this conversation was going.  
  
“It IS real sex,” Greg protested. “It’s the best sex I’ve ever had. Don’t cheat yourself out of it because of stupid conventions and antiquated expectations.”  
  
“I’m not a snob, and I’m not homophobic either, if that’s what you are implying. I just like, well, a classical fuck. Not fumbling around with another man’s dick in the dark. I want to get a leg over.”  
  
“Oh, poor John, you have no idea, do you? The best fuck you can get is a man. It’s tighter, warmer, rougher, actually even more sensitive,” Greg exhaled, looking a little dreamy.  
  
“Come on, it can’t be better. There’s like, no tits for a start,” John pleaded.  
  
“There’s nipples,” Greg grinned broadly. “It’s an old wife’s tale that they are useless on a man. They have their Raison d'être. So sensitive, on both of us. I swear, when he plays with mine while he fucks me I just lose it.”  
  
John looked like he was about to claw his way out of the sofa. “Maybe a tad too detailed there, Greg,” he warned, feeling uncomfortably warm and a little unaccountably aroused. “I didn’t think you would, you know, be the one, the … err… bottom?” he bit his lower lip, a little shyly.  
  
“Oh, I’m not,” Greg protested. “Well, I am, but so is he. We both like both sides of it, well it’s fairly new, we haven’t tried everything, but we have loved everything we’ve tried. It’s definitely working out all right.”  
  
“I just can’t imagine myself doing it, I really can’t,“ John shook his head, laughing. "Can you really imagine Sherlock and myself…” he paused and looked a little vacant, as if maybe a teeny fraction of his brain enjoyed toying with the idea of two sweaty bodies writhing against each other in Baker Street, and big chunks of his libido concurred with the little brain part, but then he pulled himself together and snickered at Greg. “Nope, can’t see it.”  
  
“Yet,” Greg teased him.  
  
“Shut up and get me some more beer!”  
  
They stayed on safer subjects till Sherlock and Mycroft joined them, Sherlock enjoying a few lagers, while Mycroft poured himself a cognac. They chatted till the afternoon waned and dusk began to settle. Then Mycroft sent for a car, the dog and a big basket of leftovers and John thanked Mycroft profusely for the day, and Sherlock was almost polite. Gladys barked a lot when they left, was very clean and well fed.  
  
They ate a bit more roast for their dinner, and Sherlock amazingly managed another piece of pie before retiring to bed. Gladys ran upstairs with John, seemingly determined to try all the sleeping places of the flat out.  
  
The next morning the body was found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes does indeed like flowers:
> 
> “There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion," said he, leaning with his back against the shutters. "It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers.”  
> ― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes


	5. Was he well hung?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A member of Sherlock's Homeless Network makes an important discovery. But does the man maybe know even more, and is just unable to tell them? Sherlock and John face a very busy day, starting on a journey someone does not want them to undertake.

 

  
”John!” Sherlock yelled from the living room, repeating it louder, poking his head out onto the staircase when there was no reply from upstairs. “JOHN! Wake up. We have to go.”  
  
John was slumbering, not deeply asleep, almost well rested, just not entirely conscious enough to be counted as part of the London population when Sherlock’s cries reached his brain membrane and set things in motion. His mind started registering sound, his ears processed information, his eyes blinked at their own volition and his heart beat went up a fraction. At the third cry of his name he was entirely awake and tumbled out of bed.  
  
John opened his door and called down, “Sherlock? What is it?”  
  
“A development, John. I got a text. The network, they have come through, as usual. I am calling Lestrade. Get dressed, hurry, John.” Sherlock’s voice faded and John knew he’d gone back into the flat, probably talking to Lestrade. A quick look out the window showed him the weather called for a warm sweater and a rainproof coat, so he dressed accordingly and hurried downstairs. Sherlock was still on the phone, discussing intensely with someone, so he put the kettle on, praying there would be time for a cup. Just as it boiled Sherlock rang off and turned to him.  
  
“Runnymede! You know the place, near Addlestone?” He waited for a sign of acknowledgement from John, and when he got it he proceeded, “Rain, one of my homeless contacts, has discovered a body hanging in a tree at Homewood Park. Being an astute fellow, formerly a mathematics teacher before his unavoidable nervous breakdown, well that’s another story for another time, he has been able to ascertain that the man is deceased and could indeed be the columnist I have put a warrant on a few scant days ago, and he has wisely not tampered with the corpse and let it hang, and contacted me first of all. Good fellow. Must bring tip, have any cash, John? Now we must beat the Andersons of London and their ilk to the location or all hope of finding sensible evidence will be lost for all time. I need you to be my arms at the site, since my shoulder is stubbornly refusing to heal on its own, and yes, I will resume training with Tom since I need it, so you can save your breath and stop berating me before you have begun. Now, bring that tea you are brewing and let’s get a cab. Lestrade will meet us there, if nothing else to stave the incompetents of the yard off while we have a good look – and I pray he will be able to either keep Mycroft at home, or keep him away from the body till I am done. If not, you may want to bring a tranquillizer for him, for I am quite convinced the body is that of his hitherto only friend, Langdale Pike.” Sherlock stopped for a breath, and then looked crestfallen for a second. “Oh, crumpets! The dog! We will have to bring her. Is she still in your bed?”  
  
A bark from the backside of John’s knees informed them of the whereabouts of Gladys, as well as of her need to relieve herself on the streets of London. Necessity being good company to impatience, John sent the two of them down together while he made his tea in a carrier cup, grabbed two slices of bread and slapped a bit of leftover roast between them and joined the pair on the sidewalk, taking hold of the dog as Sherlock stared down a cab.  
  
Sherlock was antsy and impatient during the long drive. Even though it was early on a Sunday, there was loads of traffic till they got to the outskirts of town, and even so it was a forty minute ride. “Interminable,” Sherlock deemed it.  
  
Greg and two officers had beat them to it and were closing the area off with police tape as John and Sherlock arrived. Greg frowned when he saw the dog. “Not really a good idea to have her here, in case that is her master, don’t you think?” he asked them.  
  
“We could not leave her at home alone. Let one of your minions walk her in another part of the park then. John, hand her over,” Sherlock ordered, and Greg sighed, knowing a lost battle even before it commenced. He called one of the officers over, and told him to keep the dog well clear of the crime scene.  
  
Huddled on a bench nearby a figure rocked back and forth, clutching his knees. Sherlock walked over to him and knelt in front of him. “Rain? Don’t be alarmed, you’ve done good. They know it’s not you. Clever you for texting me. A hot meal and a warm bed tonight, I think,” Sherlock suggested as he pressed a fifty pound note into the man’s hand. “Lestrade. Give this man a blanket; can’t you see he’s in shock?” Sherlock called out before standing, giving Rain a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.  
  
“Now, where is the body?” Sherlock asked as he strode over to Greg’s car. “We may as well get on with this. Where is Mycroft?”  
  
“I talked him into staying at home and let me do my job,” Greg answered.  
  
“I’m the one doing your job, Lestrade,” Sherlock corrected him.  
  
“Sherlock!” John said, just that one word, having joined them after handing the dog over.  
  
“And stop calling me Lestrade.”  
  
“Out here you are Lestrade, at home you are Greg,” Sherlock explained as they strode along a dusty path. “Ah, here we are,” he exclaimed as they turned a corner and saw a man’s body swaying from a low hanging branch, his feet swinging only inches off the ground. Sherlock walked around to his front, steadying the corpse with a gloved hand and closed his eyes briefly. “Damn, it _is_ Lang, I rather thought it would be”, he said, turning towards John and Greg. “My condolences to my brother, he’ll need you for this, Lestrade. And you’ll need me for this,” he continued and turned his attention back to the corpse. He worked quickly, and efficiently, moving carefully around the area, always retracing his steps so he didn’t create more footprints than were strictly necessary.  
  
Suddenly he went down into a crouch. “Here! Here’s a footprint that doesn’t belong here, someone get a plaster kit, and John, get some photos. I also need the sample bags, and could you please get a ladder for John?” he asked no one in particular.  
  
“I’m not that short!” John protested.  
  
“Don’t be silly. I need you to get up there and examine the body before we cut it down. There is something odd about the angle he’s hanging at. Get lots of photos first though.”

“Right, right.” John allowed, using his phone to take pictures of every angle before climbing the ladder that Greg supplied from one of the vans at the site. John braced himself against the branch as he looked closely at the neck, the wound, the rope, the bruising, the scars and the stains. He took the body temperature, then carefully opening the slack eyelids he examined the iris. Looking into the mouth he examined the gums; lifting the right hand and looking at the fingernails he finished the inspection before calling down to Sherlock, “You are right. There is something wrong. He was dead before he was hung here. I need a full autopsy to be sure, but I assume his neck was broken. He has been dead for days. Can I come down now?”  
  
Sherlock moved a gloved hand across his face as if to assimilate the information and then acknowledged John. “Yes, please, you have been most helpful. Lestrade, do give him a hand. And get the corpse down now. I need to examine the garments in detail before he’s taken away. Have my brother contact the widow and have her recalled. She will insist on arranging the funeral herself. Despite their lifestyle she loved him deeply. Have Mycroft ready a guest room for her, we need the apartment for further investigation, and I don’t think she would want to stay there quite yet.” Sherlock issued orders as he tried, in vain, to get his magnifying glass out of his pocket. “John. John?” he complained, which John correctly interpreted as ‘help’, so having descended the ladder he got it out of the right hand pocket and handed it to Sherlock. Meanwhile, a policeman cut Langdale Pike’s body down while two officers carefully caught it, lowering it to the ground.  
  
“A bit of a coincidence, the place, huh?” Greg asked Sherlock as the body was securely strapped to a gurney.  
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, half his mind concentrating on swabbing the body for pollen and such like before the transport would ruin the specimens, only parts of it listening to Greg.  
  
“That we found him at the end of St. Peters Way; that is what this road is called, you know”.  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but offered no further comments. Greg walked off a bit to call Mycroft with the sad news, and John was glad that Mycroft had someone to soften the blow for him.  
  
As they came back to the police cars Sherlock noted that Rain wasn’t just huddled anymore, he was whimpering. He called out to no one in particular across his shoulder. “Please have someone take Rain to a shelter downtown, would you? The man is coming apart, and we don’t need a potential witness for the crown to come anymore apart than he already is, right?”  
  
“Right,” Greg agreed and appointed a uniform to help the man, who motioned for Rain to follow him. The officer held an arm gently around Rain, but as soon as they approached the car he froze and literally dug his heels in. He wouldn’t budge. The officer tried to push a bit harder at him and Rain let out a piteous howl.  
  
John ran over there, gently removing the hand of the officer from Rain, shushing him. “It’s ok, you don’t have to go in that car. Sherlock hates them too. Worst drivers in town.” John received a massive hug in return. “Ok, Rain, take it easy. No one will take you where you don’t want to be.”  
  
At John’s words the man calmed down a little and let the hug slip, though he still clung to his left arm  
  
Sherlock came over to look closely at him, too close, as Sherlock was wont to do. ”He has seen something that has scared him. He’s a nervous fellow, to be sure, but not to this degree.” He looked at John, then turned back to Rain. ”What is it, Rain? Was it the body, did it scare you?  You haven’t seen a dead person before? Was it something else?”  
  
Rain clung harder to John and looked back at Sherlock. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a whimper came out.  
  
Sherlock looked intensely at him, trying to deduce anything from the blank eyes. “I think he may have seen something vital, John. We must take him with us for now. I can’t send him to a shelter in this condition. We shall take him to Bart’s till I have come up with a solution; he can wait while you and Molly perform the autopsy.” Sherlock turned to Greg, who was standing somewhat behind him. “We’ll take Rain with us in the ambulance. Please call another for the body. We’ll await it at Bart’s. Can you bring the dog there, please.”  
  
Greg shook his head, but complied, getting rather used to the way of the Holmes brothers these days. He often heard questions formed as orders now.  
  
With John holding Rain’s hand they had no trouble getting him into the ambulance, the three of them seated in the back. When they arrived, Molly was prepping the room. When she spotted Rain she offered to bring tea for all of them, just to disperse of the cold in their bones.  
  
Rain gratefully received his cup on the chair where John had placed him, finally letting go of his hand.  
  
“What are you going to do with him?” Molly wondered. “He can’t stay here, it’s a morgue, you must have noticed. He’s way too mobile compared to the rest of the clientele.”  
  
“I guess we’ll have to find a treatment facility for him somewhere,” John said.  
  
“Treatment for what exactly?” Sherlock frowned. “He’s neither a drunk nor an addict, who will take him in?”  
  
“He does rather clearly suffer some form of trauma,” John looked appraisingly at Rain, “but psychology is not my field. No doubt he’d benefit from a few days in a safe environment though.”  
  
“There’s a psych ward here, and they…” Molly began but Sherlock interrupted her.  
  
“No! He needs a _safe_ place. Somewhere he can stay without it showing up in public records. I would normally recommend protective custody for a traumatized potential witness, but Rain isn’t ‘normal’”, Sherlock pondered, “so where?”  
  
“We can’t take him home, Sherlock, you know that, right?” John queried, and Sherlock just held up a hand to stave off that notion and nodded agreement.  
  
“I know of an excellent, discreet, private clinic in Hertford,” Molly said, “but it’s not cheap.”  
  
“Mycroft will pay,” Sherlock said, dismissing that obstacle. “He has a vested interest in protecting a witness in this case.” Sherlock texted Mycroft at length and quickly got an affirmative answer.  
  
“Good, then. Molly, please call them and arrange it. John can take him there when we are done with the autopsy.”  
  
“Excuse you?” John asked, but got no answer. Sherlock merely busied himself preparing sample bags and swaps for the examination.  
  
Molly made the call, and when she was done she walked over to Rain and patted his cheek to get his attention, but he blushed and hung his head, humming quietly to himself. “Rain, you’re safe now. John and Sherlock will take care of you, it doesn’t get better than that, hmm?” Molly reassured him, and Rain nodded as if he’d understood. “More tea?” Molly asked and Rain answered her by raising his cup and huge brown eyes to Molly simultaneously. She laughed at the clear unspoken affirmation and took the tea cup. “I’ll be right back,” she promised and earned herself a small smile from Rain.  
  
Shortly after her return an ambulance crew arrived with the body of the former columnist, escorted by Greg, Anderson and Donovan.  
  
“When you are done, Sherlock, let Anderson and Donovan know, so they can begin our official processing of the evidence,” Greg said. “The dog is in the waiting room, don’t know if you can keep it there, your problem for now.”  
  
“Where will you be?” Sherlock wondered.  
  
“I’m just nipping home to see him, you know, check that he’s all right, and then I’ll be back at the crime scene, there’s still a huge amount of ground to cover out there.”  
  
“Oh, that’s not the crime scene, that’s just where the body was left. He wasn’t killed out there,” Sherlock assured him. “I’m not entirely sure where it was but I have four basic theories that I must test. I’ll let you know.” Sherlock dismissed Greg and turned towards the body.  
  
As Greg exited, Donovan suddenly noticed Rain in the corner, sipping his tea. “What the hell is he doing here? Did you bring him, freak?” she asked Sherlock. She was ignored. “He’s not like the dog, you know. You can’t just haul him arbitrarily off,” she frowned. “He’s a human being.”  
  
“Oh, come on,” John protested. “He’s a homeless, rather confused guy. You lot wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire, I’ve seen how they are treated,” John frowned back at her.  
  
Donovan opened her mouth to argue this point, but was cut off.  
  
“Enough!” Sherlock interrupted her. “Donovan, Anderson, out! We need peace and quiet for this examination. Make yourselves useful and play with the dog, and walk if it needs to. Molly, give Rain a newspaper, or your phone, or something to play with, he’ll be fine in the corner. What, are you still here?” he said to Anderson who shook his head and led Donovan out to the waiting room, quite happy to be where Sherlock was not.  
  
It was two long and thorough hours later when Sherlock, John and Rain emerged from the morgue. Molly called Donovan and Anderson in, and Gladys exploded with joy as she saw Sherlock, jumping up at his sides, running around herself in front of his feet, tail wagging enthusiastically, threatening to knock off everything that wasn’t nailed down. “Let me guess,” Anderson asked dryly of John, “you’re the one walking and feeding her?”  
  
“Obviously,” John said with a sigh and followed the enamoured dog and Sherlock out, pulling Rain with him.  
  
Sherlock carried a container of samples that would keep him occupied for endless hours, so outside Bart’s they parted. John and Rain were for Hertford, and Sherlock and Gladys for Baker Street. Sherlock made a last effort to get a few sensible words out of Rain, but that just resulted in setting the whimpers off again, so he relented and put the two of them in a taxi.  
  
It was hours later when John returned, and as he’d guessed Sherlock was transfixed to the microscope, the dog unfed, and the kitchen a veritable war zone.  
  
He knew it would be pointless to try to talk to Sherlock at this stage, let alone berate him, so he took Gladys for a quick walk, then fed her and himself as they got back. He was upstairs, changing into his pyjamas and a housecoat when the first shots rang out. He heard the windows shatter downstairs mere milliseconds later and he nearly fell over his shoes in his haste to get down the stairs.  
  
He made it just in time to hear a body hit the floor.

 


	6. One down, eight to go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help is badly needed at Baker Street and Sherlock learns something through the grapevine

As John slammed through the front door of their living room, rolling as he hit the floor, he heard a second round of shots ring out, and simultaneously the lamps in the flat exploded, one by one. “Sherlock? Sherlock?” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  
“Stay down, John!” Sherlock yelled from his position under the kitchen table where he was clutching John’s gun – _and when did he get that_? Sherlock threw himself forwards, rolled once and shot the lamp in the corner by the door. The flat was now in total darkness.  
  
“Are you ok? Are you hit?” John called out to him and then threw his arms up to cover his head as more shots were fired through the windows, slamming into the wall behind him.  
  
“I think I may have been grazed, my shoulder hurts like hell,“ Sherlock shouted back, struggling to be heard even though he was a mere five feet away from John’s position. “And Gladys is hit, she’s lying prone in front of your ch.... SHIT!“ Sherlock swore as the next shots shattered some glass close by him, and John knew he feared that it could be the microscope.  
  
A shrill voice called up the stairs “What is going on up there?”  
  
“STAY DOWN THERE, MRS HUDSON,” John screamed at the top of his lungs, “AND CALL THE POLICE, SCREAM BLOODY MURDER, LITERALLY.”  
  
John heard a faint “Oh, dear,” as Mrs Hudson retraced her steps into her apartment to find a phone.  
  
“IS SHE SAFE?” Sherlock shouted at John.  
  
“IFFY WAIF WHAT?” John shouted back.  
  
“MRS HUDSON! IS SHE OK?”  
  
“NO, SHE’S FINE” John assured him.  
  
“WHO IS NOSHI HINE?” Sherlock screamed back, glass and plaster falling down around him as the shots seemed to come closer.  
  
“SHE’S FINE, I SAID.” John almost choked; the air was so thick with debris.  
  
“NO, SHE CAN’T BE DEAD,” Sherlock howled and threw himself forwards, hurtled past John so fast he felt him, rather than actually saw him, throwing himself downstairs in search of Mrs Hudson.  
  
It was at that moment that John heard the sirens, and he’d never been happier to hear that particularly annoying noise. They had probably heard the shots all the way down at the yard. The very next second the shooting seized. He scurried to the window, huddling under the window sill, just as he heard Sherlock crash through the door downstairs. He scanned the building across the road but he couldn’t see anything. All the windows were either dark or boringly occupied by the dull light of television, the watchers undoubtedly thinking the shots they’d heard belonged to someone else’s television programme. Next he heard outraged screams from Mrs Hudson and deep rumblings of apology in a familiar voice. In mere moments the sirens came to a halt downstairs, and flashing blue lights filled the darkness. He got up on his knees and crawled quickly over to his chair, feeling around for Gladys, finding her warm body slick with blood. He checked her heart beat. Still there, but faint. He drew his chequered blanket down from the back of the chair and rolled her up in it, making his way to the staircase where a faint light still shone, and carried her down to the ground floor.  
  
Two uniformed policemen were already inside, apparently having busted the front door open. One of them ran up the few steps to John and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you hurt, sir?”  
  
“Me?” John asked, slightly dazed. “No, I’m not, the blood is the dog’s. Need help for it. A vet. Please?” John lifted Gladys out from his body, towards the constable in a silent plea for a miracle. “Please?” he repeated.  
  
“There is an open emergency veterinary clinic at Elizabeth Street  - I’ll take it over there right away,” the officer said, placing a soothing hand on John’s shoulder. “Are you coming?”  
  
“No, can’t,” John shook his head and descended the rest of the stairs. “I have to check the others, if they are hurt,” he pointed behind him towards the smashed door leading to Mrs Hudson’s flat.  
  
“I can call for paramedics,” the officer suggested.  
  
“Yes, you should, but I’ll check them first. It’s ok, I’m a doctor,” John explained and added “and get a hold of DI Lestrade and tell him about this, he will want to be here. And please keep me posted on the state of the dog. Her name is Gladys, by the way,” John said before turning and walking quickly into Mrs Hudson’s flat.  
  
More police cars arrived as John entered the kitchen where both Mrs Hudson and Sherlock were seated by the little table, policemen hurrying upstairs while others cordoned off the street.  
  
“Are you hit? Sherlock? Let me see?” He turned on the ceiling lamp to get a good view, and Sherlock turned slowly towards him.  
  
“I think… maybe just grazed?” He held up his left arm, blood trickling out of his sleeve.  
  
“Jesus! Mrs Hudson, are you ok?” John asked as he found a scissor and cut the sleeve of Sherlock’s blue dressing gown open. There’d be hell to pay for that when the dazed detective realised what John had just done, but there was no time to gently pry it off.  
  
“I’m fine, dear. Just my hands shaking a bit.” She held them out and they were indeed shaking.  
  
“Think you can find your first aid kit, and perhaps organize a couple of drinks for yourself and Sherlock? I’d recommend cognac or whisky under the circumstances.” John busied himself cutting into the t-shirt Sherlock was wearing under the robe. He grabbed a clean tea towel and quickly wet it under the faucet. Dabbing carefully at the shoulder he uncovered a small wound, but no bullet holes.  
  
“Right, you got lucky again. It is just a surface wound. Hold still while I clean it, will you?” John ordered as he thankfully took the box Mrs Hudson offered him, and he rummaged around in it for some iodine. He found a big bottle and poured a generous amount on to the wound.  
  
Sherlock looked at it, almost disinterested. “Will I need stitches?” he wondered.  
  
“Nope, not this time. A good cleansing and a bit of bandage will do. Are you sure that’s the only wound?” He finished with the iodine and grabbed a role of gauze, deftly binding it onto the shoulder wound.  
  
“Yes… well, I may have stepped in some glass, and the odd bruise but I wasn’t hit more than this. I hit the floor pretty hard after the first shot.  
  
“I heard you,” John nodded.  
  
“It could have been worse. I had just dropped a scissor and bent to retrieve it when the bullet passed my shoulder. Had I waited a fraction of a second to bend I would not be talking to you now,” Sherlock realised, his eyes fixing on John’s.  
  
“Jesus. You could have…” John ground his teeth and shook his head, closed his eyes hard for a moment to regain his composure, remove his thoughts from the unthinkable and get on with his work. ”I think you’ll need this now,” he said and got two glasses out of the cupboard as Mrs Hudson returned with a bottle of cognac. “Thank you, sit down now, both of you, and drink this.” He poured them two fingers each, handing them their glasses in turn. “Sip, very slowly,” he instructed them. As he was examining Sherlock’s feet for cuts a police man entered the kitchen.  
  
“Who called us?” he asked, getting out a note book.  
  
“That would be me,” Mrs Hudson confirmed, sipping away.  
  
“So can you tell me what happened here?”  
  
“Not really,” she huffed and shook her head.  
  
“I’d say it was pretty bloody obvious,” John stated as he removed a small glass splinter from Sherlock’s left foot.  
  
“And who may you be, sir?” The officer raised an eyebrow as he looked down at John.  
  
“Doctor Watson. I live here. Have you been upstairs?” he queried.  
  
“Yes, quite a mess. I assume someone is trying to kill you?” the officer made a note of John’s name.  
  
“Not me, him!” John nodded up at Sherlock.  
  
“Or Gladys!” Sherlock offered. “How is she?”  
  
“At the vets’ in Elizabeth Street, one of the officers took her there,” John informed him as he put a band aid on Sherlock’s foot.  
  
“Why didn’t you go with her?” Sherlock stared at John.  
  
“Why didn’t I …?” John’s mouth fell open. “You and Mrs Hudson in here with lord knows how many bullet holes in your bodies, you think I’d leave you?”  
  
“Well, yes. Why wouldn’t you?” Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised.  
  
“Because I care more for the two of you than I do for a dog that belongs to a dead friend of your brother?” John suggested - a tad on the snarky side of the moon.  
  
“Pah,” Sherlock huffed him off, downed the rest of his cognac and tested his foot against the floor, standing carefully. “I’ll give them a call. May I use your phone, Hudders? Mine is upstairs.”  
  
“Go right ahead, dear, it’s by the telly” she waved him off as she was getting to the bottom of her own glass, her hands still shaky, but slightly steadier.  
  
Sherlock disappeared into the living room, the police man in tow, just as a team of paramedics arrived, bustling into the kitchen. “Good evening”, the guy in the lead said, putting down a big orange box on the kitchen table. “Is anyone in need of our good help? Had a bit of an OK Corral shoot-out here?”  
  
“About bloody time!” John interjected. ”I am Dr John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I live here, and since we have been subjected to fucking world war three here tonight I would like a blood pressure and pulse from the lady of the house there, and blood sugar if you have the kit,” John pointed at Mrs Hudson, “and if you could just take my friend in the living room to the nearest insane asylum and lock him up for good, that would be just lovely. But let’s just start by getting _her_ warm and out of the shock zone, and then look into how _he_ is really doing in there, because he can hide pain like no one else, and he knows how close he came to death, again, and we can start cleaning up the debris of glass and find out if the dog will survive since it happened to actually get shot, and _he_ seems to think that it is a canine witness that could possibly be withholding proof or statements, while I, however, think we could all do with a cup of tea, and… what the hell are you doing?” John asked as the second paramedic on the scene started to drape him in a blanket.  
  
“How about we start getting _you_ out of the shock zone, huh, sir?” a very cute brunette asked as she pushed John into the chair that Sherlock had just vacated. “Any PTSD symptoms from your army days, per chance?”  
  
“Me?” John looked at her, unbelieving. “I am just fine,” he informed her and shuddered from head to toe as the warmth of the blanket triggered a response in his body.  
  
“Of course you are,” she nodded as she opened her bag. “Roll your sleeve up for me please?”  
  
John did as asked, staring unseeingly as she took his blood pressure and then his pulse.  
  
“A bit on the low side, and you have an erratic pulse. You’re breathing a little too fast.  I’m going to give you some oxygen. Don’t worry, we’ll have you up and about in no time. Deep breaths, now please.” She fastened a mask to John’s face and opened the flow from her little portable canister. Small protests from John were muffled by the mask, and he had to admit it actually felt pretty good.  
  
“Very good, sir. Don’t you worry about your friend. My colleague is seeing to her.”  
  
John lifted the mask aside for a moment. “Yes, but Sherlock…?”  
  
“The gentleman in the other room?” She nodded towards the living room. “I’ll have a look at him right away, if you promise to sit here and breathe slowly and deeply?”  
  
John frowned at her. He resented being treated like a patient, but relented when he felt himself shivering. He couldn’t understand why. He was used to danger, they more often chased it than not, but there was something very unsettling about this situation. Someone so very deliberately trying to kill Sherlock had rattled John more than he was willing to admit to himself. He turned his thoughts to more practical matters, like where to spend the night? Hopefully somewhere with less bullets, less glass shards and more light than in their flat.  
  
John had just gotten his breathing under control when Greg arrived. Unsurprisingly with Mycroft in tow. Mycroft went directly upstairs to view the damage, while Greg came into the kitchen. He started when he saw John with the mask and blanket and hurried to his side.  
  
“Are you hit?” he asked, looking John over.  
  
John removed his mask, his breathing finally normal again and answered “No, and nor is Sherlock. It’s a bloody miracle with the number of bullets fired. The place is a mess, and Sherlock shot all our lamps…”  
  
“Clever man,” Greg approved. “You rather want to stay in darkness when someone is firing at you. Well, better go have a look at the damage. I’ll come back down in a min. Want to talk to Sherlock too. Where is he?”  
  
“Living room, talking to the vets, or one of your cops, not sure.”  
  
“Oh, dog hurt?” Greg asked, tilting his head a little.  
  
“Afraid so, one of your guys took her to the clinic.” John removed the blanket and got up to put the kettle on. He needed a cup of tea so badly that he was willing to go to Ceylon and harvest it.  
  
“Right, well, see you in a bit.” Greg disappeared upstairs, and John rummaged around the kitchen looking for a teapot. They could all do with a cup. Mrs. Hudson, who had been released by her medic, regained her composure and came over to help him, getting out cups, sugar and milk and together they calmed down through the healing routine of brewing tea. When it was done he poured a cup for himself and one for Sherlock and took them through to the living room. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, talking to the cop, trying to ignore the medic who was trying to get his pulse. John sat down next to him, handing him the cup.  
  
He waited till Sherlock was done telling what little they knew of the attack before asking, “Got through to the vets?”  
  
“Yes, yes, but nothing to tell, I’m afraid. She’ been shot, and they are going to operate but it could take a while before they can let us know how it’ll go.” Sherlock sighed, sipping his tea, his brow furrowed. “John, go upstairs and get me some shoes. I can’t walk around in all that glass barefooted, and I need to go up and check my microscope and the specimens, see what can be saved.”  
  
“We’ve no light up there,” John reminded him.  
  
“Oh, shit. Forgot.” He was grinding his teeth, not a good sign, so John hurried to reassure him.  
  
“I’m sure the police have set up some emergency light. They need to see what’s what up there.”  
  
“Yes, of course, John, they must have. Shoes!” he huffed out impatiently.  
  
John sighed, took a quick swig from his tea and went upstairs. Before he left he remembered a vital issue that had been niggling away at the edge of his brain. “Do call the clinic, will you? The other clinic. Make sure nothing has happened to Rain? I mean, if you think this is connected to the case…”  
  
“You may conceivably have a point, John,” Sherlock acknowledged. “Will do. And will you stop that. I’m fine!” he protested as the medic was now trying to listen to his heartbeat.

 _Good luck finding his heart_ , John thought as he left them to it.  
  
John was halted at the top of the stairs by an officer holding out a forbidding hand. “Sorry, sir, but this area is closed off for the investigation.”  
  
“But I live here,” John protested.  
  
“Again, sorry, sir. Just doing my job,” the officer maintained, still blocking John’s way.  
  
“Listen, could you please get DI Lestrade over to me? He can probably help.”  
  
“Certainly, sir,” he said and spoke into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. “Someone find Lestrade and ask him to come out to the staircase please?” He was answered by some inaudible scratchy noises, but it did produce a Greg by the door only moments later.  
  
“What’s up, John?“ he asked.  
  
“I need some shoes for Sherlock, probably some clothes, and he wants to come in to check on his experiments,” John explained, “and why the heck can’t I get into my own sitting room? Aren’t we the victims here?”  
  
“It’s a crime scene, John. Down at the yard we don’t take kindly to people shooting wildly about them in London. We have to get all the bullets out of the wall, photograph, measure, record, document and verify, in short, investigate. Let us do our job, please.”  
  
“Right, yes, of course, but what are we to do tonight?”  
  
“I imagine we can find a spare room for you.” Greg smiled and called out over his shoulder, “Hey Mycroft, come here a second.”  
  
Mycroft joined them on the small landing outside the living room, frowning slightly. “This was a bad attack, John. Is he ok?”  
  
“Yes, yes, and so am I, thanks for asking,” John replied, a little miffed.  
  
“Well, it is highly doubtful that you were the target, unless you have upset any of your patients lately,” Mycroft retorted.  
  
“We don’t know anything about this yet, so let’s not theorize, My,” Greg butted in. “More importantly, where do we put those two tonight? We’re not going to be done in this flat any time soon, and when we are there’s a lot of cleaning to do.”  
  
“You’ll obviously stay at my house,” Mycroft concluded, nodding at John, “and I’ll send a repair crew over here when you deem it ready, Gregory. Now, my brother, where is he?”  
  
“He’s downstairs. Driving a young medic into early retirement, I imagine,” John said. “He needs shoes and clothes - he’s in his pyjamas, which I’ve had to cut open.” At that remark Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but offered no further comments.  
  
“I shall gather some garments before I go down there,” Mycroft nodded and left.

“I assume I am allowed to go up to my room and pack a bag?” John asked Greg. “It wasn’t shot at.”  
  
“Yes, all right. I’ll come down and meet you two shortly, I’ll take you home myself. Mycroft is staying a little longer. He has called for a team to search the house across the street for traces of the shooter.”  
  
John went upstairs and quickly packed an overnight bag, changing out of his pyjamas again, and packing them too. He wasn’t about to travel across London in a dressing gown. That sort of thing was more Sherlock’s style. John went back downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s flat, and found Sherlock sulking on the sofa. The medics were gone. “Did they do anything to you?” John asked.  
  
“Hmm? Oh that, a tetanus shot, that’s all. You took ages! Where’s my shoes?”  
  
“Mycroft is bringing them, they wouldn’t let me in. Flat’s a war zone. We have to go spend the night at Mycroft’s house, we can’t stay here, apparently.”  
  
“What?” Sherlock exploded. “I haven’t got time to traipse around and visit family now, I have work to do. I need access to my flat, now! I’m going up there.”  
  
“No, you’re not.” John assured him, and pushed him back down as he tried to rise from the sofa. “You’ll just get yourself arrested or worse, and I’ve patched you up enough this week to last me a lifetime. You just wait here, and your brother will bring you some clothes, and then Greg will take us home.”  
  
“Quite right, John,” Mycroft agreed with him as he glided into the living room at that very moment, carrying two bags. “Here you are, little brother, some clothes to see you through the day, pyjamas, a housecoat, your toothbrush, the precious hairbrush, and your special shampoo. I know you won’t use mine. Shoes, socks, coat, scarf, gloves.” He ticked the items off as he put the two bags down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock.  
  
“Thank you, but I shan’t need it. I’m not leaving,” Sherlock maintained and looked away from Mycroft.  
  
“Yes, you are. It’ll be at least tonight, and probably most of tomorrow before the police are done up there, and then the place will need new windows, plaster, paint, and lord knows how much cleaning before it’s habitable again,” Mycroft informed him.  
  
“I’m not leaving! I need access to my lab and my specimens. I can’t possibly leave it at this stage. My work is far more important than theirs. They won’t find anything anyway. Only bullets.”  
  
“Be that as it may, it is a closed crime scene, and I am afraid you do not have a lab.” Mycroft’s facial expression softened. “I am very sorry to tell you that your microscope is an irretrievable casualty of this evening. I have, however, saved nearly all the samples you were working on, including the ones in the fridge. They are in this cooling bag. And I have ordered a microscope sent over from the Royal Free Hospital. You can use my home office during your stay and set up there. It has a small fridge, and a comfortable sofa. I trust this will lessen the blow?”  
  
At the mention of the microscope Mycroft suddenly had Sherlock’s full attention. His lips were very pinched when he nodded at Mycroft’s final question and he got up from the sofa, undressing from his tattered fabrics and donned the suit Mycroft had brought him. He had trouble getting into his jacket, now with injuries to both his arms, so John gave him a hand.  
  
When they were done Greg was at the door waiting for them. “Let’s go, guys. I can really use my bar tonight, how about you, John, a pint?”  
  
“ _A_ pint? Just keep the tap open for me,” John laughed dryly. “Tonight is not a one-pint night. My knees are still shaky.”  
  
Greg shoved their bags in the back of his BMW, and Sherlock got in the backseat, leaving John to be the companionable passenger on the front seat. John chatted to Greg while Sherlock made a few calls, first to reassure himself that there had been no incidents at Rain’s clinic, and then to the vet, but there was no news.  
  
When they arrived at the house Sherlock went straight to Mycroft’s office with his samples, finally calming down a bit when he saw that the hospital had indeed delivered a state of the art microscope for his use. John had followed him to check that, and seeing it he knew Sherlock would be thoroughly occupied for a while.  
  
“I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?” he asked. “Any chance you’ll come out for a spot of dinner later, or a drink?” Unsurprisingly Sherlock ignored him as he began unloading the small fridge of water bottles and loading his samples into it instead.  
  
John left him to it and joined Greg in his den, already pouring them a couple of pints. “Ok if I call for a pizza later? I’ve only had a spot of late lunch, Sherlock of course hasn’t had anything,” John said as he received the beer with immense gratitude, sinking down on the soft sofa.  
  
“We never got around to dinner either… erm… because of, well, we had reasons, so I’m sure Mycroft will want something when he gets back. I’ll just let Chef know, be right back.” Greg disappeared for five minutes and John nearly fell asleep in that short interval.  
  
“Right, bangers and mash and veg when Mycroft comes home, hope that’s all right with you. We don’t always have steak, you know,” he grinned and sat down too.  
  
“Sounds lovely”, John agreed.  
  
They sat in silence for a while, finishing their beers before Greg got up to refill them. He looked appraisingly at John. “Are you ok? You look rather tired.”  
  
“Long day, and then this…” he sighed heavily. “He came so close to kicking the bucket, you know. If he hadn’t bent down just as the first shot was fired we’d be standing in the morgue now.”  
  
“Jesus, that bad?” Greg re-joined John on the sofa with the beers.  
  
“Yeah, that bad.” John shook his head as if to disperse the feeling of dread and drank a sizeable amount of beer.  
  
“Hmm, that’s why you were in shock, then.” That was not a question. “Are you still quite adamant that you two aren’t really a pair?”  
  
“Yes, Greg,” John heaved a sigh. “Even if I was gay he’s not interested in anything that can’t be squeezed into his microscope. And let me assure you, no part of me can.”  
  
Greg laughed, and continued “How do you know he’s not interested? Have you ever talked about it?”  
  
“Not much, just a bit at our first dinner, to sort of test the waters. I thought he was gay actually, but he told me he was neither one nor the other. Only ‘the work’ mattered.”  
  
“He can’t be that cold blooded, he’s not a lizard,” Greg scoffed. “You should try testing him, see if you can’t get a rise out of him. Just for a lark,” he giggled a bit, cocking his head as he remembered something. “Tell you what, remember what I told you about Mycroft and how he eats grapes? You wouldn’t believe it can be such a turn on, but it really is. Try that on him. We have a big fruit bowl on the dining room table, and it’s always fresh. Have a few grapes next time you sit down with him, and peel them slowly with your teeth, then suck them into your mouth. And then let’s see how uninterested he is.” Greg’s giggle was absolutely wicked.  
  
“Gregory Lestrade, if you were in Russia you would be arrested for gay propaganda,” John huffed, but couldn’t help laugh at the suggestion.  
  
“So, you’ll do it?”  
  
“Nah, you’re delirious. Nothing would happen.” John waved the whole idea off.  
  
“You’re afraid to!” Greg sat up a bit straighter and grinned at him.  
  
“What? Of course, I’m not. It’s just silly. I’m not the seductive type.”  
  
“Would you normally think Mycroft was?” Greg raised two questioning eyebrows.  
  
“Point. So, your contention is that I could get a rise out of Sherlock by eating a grape using your… method, right? What’ll I get if I do it?”  
  
“A right good laugh, I would think. At least I would,” Greg allowed.  
  
“Yeah, only I’m not doing it with you there.”  
  
“Aww!” Greg mock-pouted. “At least text me about it then.”  
  
“Maybe. If you give me another pint.” John held his glass out.  
  
As it were Sherlock didn’t come out for dinner, so it was just John, Mycroft and Greg. And they all retired right after, quite exhausted after the dramatic events.  
  
John woke at eight, and the butler told him he’d set up breakfast for him in the dining room. Mycroft and Gregory had already left for work. John strolled down to Mycroft’s office and peeked in. As he thought Sherlock was asleep on the desk, his head resting against the new microscope. He shook him awake. “Come on, get up and have a bit of breakfast, and then you can take a real nap on the sofa later, or in my room, but you can’t lie there all morning.”  
  
“I wasn’t asleep, John, just resting my eyes,” Sherlock fibbed as he sat up and stretched. Nevertheless he followed John to the dining room and condescended to have some scrambled eggs on toast, with a few fried tomatoes. It probably helped that it was made by his favourite cook, John imagined.  
  
They were both on their third cup of tea when John’s eyes fell on the fruit bowl, and he remembered Greg’s dare. He thought about it briefly and came to the conclusion that _what the hell, if it’ll get Greg off my ba_ ck. So he nabbed one of the biggest grapes and set to it. He slowly peeled it with his front teeth, chewing and swallowing the skin until the fruit was bare. Then he sucked it into his mouth with a large pop, and selected another grape. He was so concentrated on his task that he didn’t even notice Sherlock till he remembered why he was doing it. He looked up across the table as he pulled a stripe of skin down the grape, and nearly chocked on it. Sherlock was pale as a sheet, his lower lip was quivering faintly but visibly, and his lips were pressed tightly together. They made eye contact, and incredibly, Sherlock’s eyes grew larger than normal. John thought his pupils were slightly dilated, but he didn’t have long to look because Sherlock got up so fast that his chair turned over and he left the room. John heard him stomp down the corridor, and the door to the office slammed shut.  
  
He didn’t see him again for three hours till Sherlock came out to inform him that the vet clinic had called, and would like them to go down there. He was meticulous in avoiding eye contact with John as they put their coats on, and John couldn’t help but smirk a bit. On the taxi ride he turned away from Sherlock so he could text Greg.

 

-         _Tried your theory. The only reaction was him leaving the room in a snit, staying in M’s office all morning.  
  
_

The answer was prompt.

-         _And you don’t think that’s a reaction? You surely weren’t expecting a normal reaction from Sherlock, were you?  
  
_

-         _Didn’t know what to expect. But not that. He won’t even look at me now.  
  
_

-         _Oh, he must have it bad.  
  
_

-         _Shut up, Greg. Talk to you later._

Luckily Sherlock forgot all about grapes and snits and reverted to his good old self when the vet presented them with the data on Gladys.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments - they make my day, literally.


	7. Restoration and reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vet finally has news about Gladys. The message is mixed. Something pops up, something disappears, someone is in grave, grave danger.

 

”Will she live?” Sherlock was blunt as they met the vet in one of the examination rooms. Gladys was, however, not there.  
  
“Yes, I think I can safely say yes to that now. We spent all night stabilising her, and then we operated this morning, the bullet is out, and it would appear that the litter is fine too,” the vet explained.  
  
“The whatforsomething?” John asked, a slight hitch in his voice.  
  
“The litter, she is about four weeks into her gestation, so she was a lucky girl. How did she get shot? Hunting accident?” he asked.  
  
“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock answered vaguely. “So how long before she can come home?”  
  
“In a day or two,” the vet promised them.  
  
“Will she be safe here?” Sherlock frowned, looking around.  
  
“Yes, of course. There’s someone here around the clock, and no one but the staff is admitted out back where the cages are. She will be taken good care of. Do you want to see her? She’s still asleep, though.”  
  
“No, we have better let her rest, “ John butted in. “She’s not really our dog, we’re just minding her. We have better inform the owner, right Sherlock? I mean, we’re not having puppies. Right?”  
  
“Hmm,” Sherlock answered elusively.  
  
“We’re not! We’re really not, Sherlock!” John insisted.  
  
“How much do we owe you? Can you send the bill here?” Sherlock said as he handed the vet one of Mycroft’s cards. The vet nodded. “And call me when she is ready to go home. Let no one but staff in to her, do you understand?”  
  
“Don’t worry. We’ll get in touch when she’s ready.”  
  
They left the clinic, strolling out into a gloriously sunny spring day, feeling very relieved about the fate of Gladys, so John couldn’t help but tease Sherlock a little. “Did you choke on your breakfast or something this morning? You left so abruptly,” he said as he vainly tried to hide a smile.  
  
“I had an, err… experiment, I had forgotten, I suddenly remembered. Vital timing. Had to go,” Sherlock explained, in what was not his most convincing performance of the season.

“Of course.” John smacked his lips to hide the grin that was broadening. “So where to now?”  
  
“Home, if we can. I’ll text Mycroft for an update. I suppose you’ll be wanting lunch?” Sherlock rolled his eyes at this re-occurring annoyance.  
  
“Yes, actually. Just today I think I will, thanks for offering. You buying? How about that pub over there? Looks nice,” John grinned.  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock said, and strode quickly over the street, into the pub and selected the least exposed booth to sit in. He put a ten pound note on the table and looked at John. “Just water for me,” he said as he got his phone out and started texting Mycroft.  
  
By the time John came back with a sandwich, water and a pint of beer Sherlock had received an answer. He had perked up a bit. “New windows are being installed now, and a crew is clearing away the debris. An hour or two, and we can go home. “  
  
“Great,” John agreed as he wriggled into the booth. “Did the police find anything?”  
  
“Yes, lots and lots of bullets. And as I expected, nothing else.”  
  
“No sign of the shooter?” John dug into his sandwich while Sherlock sipped his water.  
  
“Not a thing. I didn’t expect them to. It was hardly an amateur.“ Sherlock took a deep breath and frowned, looking at a new incoming text. “Mycroft is wondering if we want a bodyguard?”  
  
“He is?” John’s eyebrows shot up. “If he thinks so, then we bloody are.”  
  
“I don’t want some annoying halfwit skulking around my living room while I’m on a case. I’ve told him no.” Sherlock nearly sneered, sending off his answer.  
  
“Right, cause Mycroft doesn’t know anything about threats and security, and such stuff. Sherlock, you’re a git sometimes.” John took a big swallow of his beer. Some days he could wring Sherlock’s neck for being so careless with his own safety, but that would rather defeat the purpose of worrying about him.  
  
“We’re going to Bart’s after lunch. I want to see the DNA results. They should be ready now,” Sherlock informed him. “Then the flat will probably be ready when we’re done.”  
  
John concurred, so after lunch, they hopped a taxi to Bart’s and went straight down to Molly’s office.  
   
“Knock knock,” John said cheerily as they entered. Molly looked up and smiled at them.

“What are you two doing here? I thought Sherlock would be moulded to his microscope with all the samples you took out of here yesterday.”  
  
“You didn’t hear?” John asked her.

“Hear what?” she wondered and stood to face them.  
  
“That someone tried to kill Sherlock last night. Shot our flat to hell.”  
  
“Jesus!” Molly exclaimed. “Are you all ok?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, sourly.  
  
“Oh, you were hurt? But surely you must have got help by now… or do you need me to…? Stitches? Blood? Nurse? Sherlock, what’s… ?” Molly was visibly shaken, her I-am-a-consummate-professional-around-Sherlock-veneer cracking like the Titanic at the seams.  
  
“No, no, he’s fine,” John hurried to assure her. “However, his microscope was shot to bits.”  
  
“Oh, dear. Do you want mine?” she answered, Sherlock-pleasing-autopilot on full blast.  
  
“What have you got?” Sherlock perked up and Molly beamed broadly at him, proud to be of help.  
  
“Sherlock! You already have a new one. Mycroft got you that monster of a thing…” John interrupted.  
  
“Yes, but Molly may have something better. I want to see.” He smiled charmingly at Molly.  
  
“Molly _needs_ her microscope for her work, and you are not having it, whether it’s better than your new one or not!” John informed him and pushed Molly back down into her chair.  
  
Sherlock shot him an annoyed glare, and his lips locked in sulk-mode.  
  
“Anyway, we’re here for the DNA results of the samples I brought in Thursday. The ones from Pike’s flat,” John explained.  
  
Molly looked puzzled for a few seconds, and then she remembered. “Oh, but that order was halted.”  
  
“What?” Sherlock was jolted out of sulk mode and set on the ramp, ready to launch unto the next level of toxic moods.  
  
“The Yard requested them, already the same day I think it was.” She consulted the files on her PC. “Yes, here it is. Batch number 2447, forward to Scotland Yard laboratory, Directorate of Forensic Services. Immediately. It’s signed by Lestrade,” she informed them.  
  
“Odd, he never mentioned that,” Sherlock mused as he dug his phone out, calling Greg.  
  
“Lestrade. Please have the results of the DNA sampling from Lang’s flat sent home to me in Baker Street, I’ll be…” He listened briefly as Greg interrupted him before interrupting Greg right back, “What do you mean? You requested them from Bart’s on Thursday, even Anderson would have been able to extract a result by now.” Again a bit of silence and then the rocket took off. “You didn’t WHAT? Are you perpetually clueless down there?” Again a brief pause and then Sherlock finished off with a “Get your facts straight, and then call me back immediately,” before hanging up, looking exasperated.  
  
“He claims he hasn’t requested them. Let me see that file.” He leant in over Molly who happened to get her nose almost stuck in his hair for several seconds, inhaling deeply and rapidly. “This could be from anyone”, he complained. “It’s a generic NSY e-mail address. Anyone could have signed it with Lestrade’s name. What is going on?” He stood up, leaving a befuddled Molly as master of her own computer once again.  
  
“I don’t understand,” she said.  
  
“No, that much is blatantly obvious,” Sherlock spat.  
  
“Sherlock!” John said.  
  
Sherlock’s phone rang, and he had a very short conversation, his answers limited to “Aha, no, idiots,” before he hung up again. He shook his head, looking at John. “They don’t have them. Gone. Disappeared. How the heck could that have happened? Molly?” As he said her name he swung abruptly around, bending down to stare directly into a very startled Molly’s eyes.  
  
“I… I don’t know. The Yard has their own currier. It was the usual guy who picked them up and signed for them. Nothing at all out of the ordinary. We haven’t done anything wrong here,” she defended herself, her lower lip quivering slightly.  
  
John felt so sorry for Molly. He knew how it felt to be on the receiving end of Sherlock’s disapproval, and that was not a position he envied her right now. As glorious and appreciated as John could feel receiving praise and a brilliant approving smile, as devastated he would be when Sherlock was disappointed in him.  
  
“Then who is behind this? And how? Oh, John, we may actually be up against someone worth my efforts. Wouldn’t _that_ be interesting?” Sherlock’s smile was inappropriate and indecent, and John knew there was absolutely no point in telling him that. Water, ducks and all that.  
  
On a lighter note though, Sherlock’s smile perked Molly up a bit. She straightened her hair, and turned on a strenuous smile. “Well, as long as you’re happy,” she concluded and escaped from her chair, feeling more at ease with a bit of space between her and Sherlock.  
  
“So shall we go home now, Sherlock?” John asked, a little unsure of where they stood in this investigation right now. A little rattled. Nervous because he didn’t know why he was nervous. His battle field sensors on full alert, like a mongoose surrounded by snakes, and he wanted to be in his own den. Snug and safe.  
  
“Yes, we may as well. Let’s see how much of my lab is saved, and how much shopping you’ll have to do,” Sherlock declared and strode out the door, not bothering to check whether John was following.  
  
John mouthed a “bye” to Molly and hastened after him.  
  
When they arrived at 221B Baker Street two men were installing a new front door, a uniformed policeman looking on. Sherlock strode up to him. “I thought you guys were done here?”  
  
“Yes, sir. We are. I’m the last one here, and I’m free to leave when you have a new front door, which seems to be only minutes away now.” The policeman looked relieved.  
  
“Very well then,” Sherlock said and strode past him, walking up the familiar stairs, John hot on his heels.  
  
When they got into the flat Sherlock swore profoundly and John beamed like a 200 watt light bulb.

“It’s so clean,” John exclaimed, looking around.  
  
“Yes, boring. Dull.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
“They’ve even repainted, though they used the same barf green. Pity. But look at the kitchen, and those new windows, is that bulletproof glass? And there’s your new microscope, and  aww, they even put a big red bow on it. And you claim Mycroft doesn’t have a sense of humour? Bah, he sure does. I had no idea the place could look like this.” John went around like a whirlwind checking everything out, while Sherlock went straight to the fridge to check if his samples had been transferred back to the flat. They had, of course. Along with a pint of milk, a ham, fresh vegetables and a banoffi pie.  
  
John peeked over his shoulder, and seeing all this he announced the immediate need for a cup of tea, with a slice of pie. Sherlock hummed his acquiescence to that plan. John nearly hugged the brand new kettle first though, and then filled it with water, whistling contently as he took out two brand new (and entirely clean) mugs from the shelf, beaming at all the new stuff. Everything had apparently been smashed. He wondered if this was some miracle insurance policy that had paid out, or if it was Mycroft who had footed the bill for all of this. He took the pie out and cut two pieces, putting them on plates, then filled the cups when the water boiled, letting them steep for exactly two minutes, then throwing out the bags. He poured milk in his own, and took the new sugar bowl down, placing it next to Sherlock’s cup.  
  
Sherlock stopped scowling at the boring, almost clinical flat, and walked over to John, filling his cup with six spoonfuls of sugar. He took the cup and his plate with pie through to the living room, sitting down on the sofa.

John reached out to put the sugar bowl back, sighing at the fact that Sherlock not ever did that, even though he was the only one who used the sugar, when he bumped it against the microscope. It was rather larger than the old one, and he wasn’t used to it yet. He quickly scooped the spilt sugar back in the bowl and licked his hand to remove the remaining sticky grains. And froze to the spot for a fraction of a second before exploding into action.  
  
“SHERLOCK! DON’T DRINK,” he screamed as he flew around the corner, launching himself at Sherlock’s teacup, knocking it off the table, seeing it fly on to the floor, hot tea spilling everywhere. Sherlock sat back on the sofa, stunned, looking at John who was now half sprawled across the coffee table.  
  
“How much? How much did you drink?” John panted as he heaved himself up, scrambling to get to Sherlock, landing in his lap as he placed two fingers at Sherlock’s left eye, prying it fully open to get a look at the iris.  
  
“John, calm down. What…? What are you on about?”  
  
“It’s poison, the sugar… strong poison, nearly pure arsenic.” John was panting heavier, and slid off Sherlock’s lap, onto the floor. “We have to call an ambulance.”  
  
“It’s ok John, I didn’t drink any, I never had time.”  
  
“It’s not for you, it’s for me,” John exclaimed as he clutched his heart, collapsing on the floor. "I think I'm having a heart attack."


	8. Take me in hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has fallen to the floor clutching his heart. Suddenly it’s up to Sherlock to be the help and rescue. Is he as good at getting John out of trouble as he is at getting him in to it?

[   
  
  
  
](http://pic20.picturetrail.com/VOL1346/13698877/24597376/410267053.jpg)

Later Sherlock could not remember much from those hour-long minutes till the paramedics were suddenly there. _Did he let them in?_ The highly computerised part of his brain had taken over as he dialled 999 and got hold of the nurse who dispatched the ambulance while she started instructing Sherlock in what to do. He automatically responded to all her commands, his feelings frozen and put in a cell of their own, his brain needing the full attention and use of his transport.  
  
As instructed Sherlock lowered John completely to the floor, loosened his shirt, then his trousers, he held his hand as he tipped his head back with his other hand, checking that the airways were free. He shushed John as panic started to rise in his eyes, stroking his hair, telling him everything would be all right, he had no idea what he was doing, all the really knew was that he was terrified to the core.  
  
It wasn't until he was physically pushed out of the back of the ambulance and shoved into the front seat next to the driver, the siren and lights on full blast as they pulled out, that he allowed his brain a pause to assess the situation. He did not like what he found. He was petrified. Sherlock Holmes unable to act or think. It was in itself unthinkable. He didn't even notice what hospital they arrived at, focused only on how quickly they could get John out of the ambulance and down the corridor, where he was shockingly halted and - again – pushed away, into a drab waiting room where no one was talking to him. No one was there, and all attempts to access the area where John would be were met with locked doors or orderlies barring his way. He wanted to call Mycroft and ask for help but he had left his mobile phone in his coat, he had left his coat, he had left everything behind. Everything. Everything but John, and he could not get to him. Sherlock did something he hadn’t done since he was seven. He slumped to the floor and cried, resting his forehead on his knees while hugging them.  
  
Time had lost meaning to him. It could have been seconds, minutes or hours before someone spoke his name softly. “Sherlock?” A gentle hand on his shoulder made him look up into big brown eyes. “Are you ok, mate? Come on, get off the floor,” Greg said as he held out a hand. “What’s going on? Not another hit, huh?”  
  
“Greg?” Sherlock looked up at him with blurry eyes. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Well, when 221 B Baker turns up on the 999 roster I’ve always taken an interest, and lately that interest has been rather enhanced, for numerous reasons, wouldn’t you say?” He smiled encouragingly at him, as he hauled him off the floor and placed him on one of the reasonably comfortable chairs along the wall.  “So, what’s happened now?”  
  
“John, John, John,” Sherlock hiccupped between sobs, “heart, his heart, pain, heart attack or something. He thought so. I could lose him! Oh, Greg, I can't lose him. They took him. I can’t get in there. They won’t let me. You can get in there. You’re a cop!” Sherlock’s mind was beginning to restore itself, setting the cogs in motion. He looked at Greg, once again in command of his faculties. “You have access to all areas. Take me to see John. Take me there now.”  
  
“Easy, Sherlock. If John is ill, it’s better to give the doctors time and room to do their stuff, don’t you know? You've always been a logical man. I’ll find a nurse and make an inquiry, but only if you promise to sit here and wait, all right?”  Greg raised his eyebrows and stood, looking down at Sherlock while waiting for a rational response.

Sherlock just nodded, his hands automatically locking on to the bottom of the chair, to keep himself in place. He didn't want Greg to reconsider.  
  
“Ok, I’ll be right back. Want a cup of tea?”  
  
“NO!” was the emphatic answer.  
  
Greg came back fairly quickly and Sherlock shot out of his chair, facing him far too close for comfort, but Greg was getting immune to that. “Relax, please. John is… well, no change. No good news but no bad news either. They are running a lot of tests. I’ve told them we’re waiting out here, so as soon as they know they’ll come and get us. Now sit down, your legs are shaking.”  
  
“They are?” Sherlock looked down on himself in surprise, and quickly sat before his legs could do something truly embarrassing.  
  
“So how did this happen?” Greg asked as he sat down next to Sherlock.  
  
“I think he got a shock, the poison and all, and he may have overexerted his heart throwing himself at me like…”  
  
“Hang on, stop right there Sherlock,” Greg held up a hand. “Take a step back,” he said and cocked his head, “tell me about the poison?”  
  
“Oh, that. The sugar, I think he said. He’d just made us tea, I took a bit of sugar in mine, new sugar bowl, I noticed. John must have tasted the sugar because he screamed at me not to drink it, and then threw himself at my cup from across the room. Quite an impressive leap really, come to think of it. But then he took ill, I thought he was poisoned, but he said it was the heart, and here we are, and where are you going?” Sherlock protested as Greg got up, hauling out his phone and dialling rapidly.  
  
“Just getting a team together, back in a jiffy,” he assured Sherlock as he walked away a bit, talking to colleagues at The Yard. Then he called Mycroft and briefed him.  
  
“Right, no wonder you didn't want a cup of tea,” Greg said as he re-joined Sherlock. “We’ll have a couple of teams go over the flat before you get home. Make sure there are no more surprises, ok? I’m afraid Mycroft is quite insisting on the guards now; it’s not a suggestion anymore.”  
  
Sherlock groaned deeply. He didn't know what he hated the most; Little Andersons and little Mycrofts crawling all over his space, or strangers hanging around, thinking that Sherlock would need their tiny brains to stay alive.  
  
Just as he was about to launch a lengthy protest a nurse came in to the waiting room, “Mr Lestrade and Mr Watson, would you follow me, please?”  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to correct her, but Greg pinched him discreetly in the arm, and whispered, “I may have mentioned you are married, to make sure they’ll give you full disclosure, so just shut up, ok?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and followed Greg and the nurse.  
  
They were shown in to a doctor’s office, however, sans doctor, and Greg sat in one of the two chairs facing his desk, while Sherlock paced back and forth in the few feet of open space.  
  
After an interminable wait the doctor finally arrived. A greying gentleman in his fifties. He shook hands with both of them before seating himself at his desk, opening a folder he’d been carrying. “Let’s see, then, he said. John Watson of Baker Street. MD. Hmm, hmm, hmm, yes, ok. No, no problem.” He looked up at them and Sherlock finally stopped pacing, placing his hands on the back of Greg’s chair.  
  
“So how bad is it? Out with it, man!” Sherlock nearly exploded with impatience.  
  
The doctor looked up at him. “I take it you are the husband, then?” He didn't wait for an answer but continued, “then I will urge you to be a little nicer to your partner. He has had a massive anxiety attack. The symptoms are almost identical to a heart attack, so with his medical knowledge, that can only have served to aggravate the circumstances.”  
  
“What, a panic attack?” Greg was the one who found his voice first.  
  
“Possibly a bit of both,” the doctor allowed. “He does have a history of PTSD, as I’m sure you know, but this seemed more intense, along the lines of a panic attack. He’s fine now though, we have given him a light sedative, and you can take him home in an hour or so, if you can promise a quiet evening in,” the doctor looked sternly at Sherlock.  
  
“The bodyguards are out then,” Sherlock nodded at Greg.  
  
“Yeah, out in the hallway, but that’s about it,” Greg retorted.  
  
“On the street, or it’s not happening,” was Sherlock’s final offer to which Greg nodded.  
  
“I’m beginning to see how he could get a panic attack,” the doctor smirked.  
  
Sherlock quickly turned to him, and said “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make sure no one disturbs him tonight. I’ll see to it personally. So can we see him?”

“If you don’t agitate him, obviously,” the doctor agreed. He’s in room seven, just out to your left there.  
  
They both left the doctor’s office, but Greg stopped Sherlock in the corridor. ”I’m going to leave you here, for now, but I’ll be back to pick you two up in an hour or so and take you home. Just going to your flat first to see how the teams are getting on. Whatever you do, don’t leave here without me, promise?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, and then groaned out loud as a uniformed officer came in, approaching Lestrade, asking “so where do you want me?”  
  
“Just outside number seven over there, no one but staff in and out, and that goes for that black haired beanstalk there as well, he stays in that room, understand?” Lestrade nodded in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock shook his head and tried to ignore both of them, striding onto and into John’s room, pulling up a chair next to the stretcher, sinking down on it, now fully aware of how shaky his legs were. John’s shirt had been taken off, and he was wearing a hospital issue t-shirt, but his own trousers.  He was partially covered by a light blanket. He was awake, but very quiet, so Sherlock just sat there, looking at him for a long time.  
  
“Someone is really trying to kill you,” John whispered suddenly.  
  
“Yes, but I shall get them first,” Sherlock promised him. “Just look at what this has done to you, it’s beyond the pale.”  
  
John smiled softly at him. “Just you be careful, hmm? Have you told the police about the poison?”  
  
“Yes, Greg turned up here, he’s at Baker Street with two teams now, one from The Yard, and one of Mycroft’s.”  
  
“Oh, good. Let’s hope there aren’t any scorpions in the sock index or snakes in the hamper, shall we?” John managed a small chuckle.  
  
“If there are they’ll find them. Mycroft can be very determined. He’s also issuing guards, but they’ll be outside. As a matter of fact you have a guard right now, from The Yard,” he nodded towards the door opening where a corner of a yellow shoulder was just in sight.  
  
“Oh, I think you’ll find that’s for you,” John smirked.  
  
“But you’re the one who nearly died today,” Sherlock put in.  
  
“No, it was false alarm. Just a panic attack,” John put a hand over Sherlock’s to reassure him.  
  
“Just?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave him the clearly-you-have-no-idea-what-I’ve-been-through-look.  
  
John spent the rest of their time there just relaxing, he even dosed off a bit before Greg turned up again, not even noticing the doctor coming in to check his pulse one last time.  
  
“Right, you two. The doctor says it’s safe to release John now, and your flat is squeaky clean, not even a dust mite could have survived the going over it’s had. Wanna go home?” he announced with as much cheer as he could to a couple facing death threats.  
  
“Did they find anything else?” Sherlock enquired as he helped John sit up, retrieving his shoes from under the stretcher, helping him put them on.  
  
“A bit, I’m afraid.” Greg shrugged, and leant up against the wall, crossing his arms. “Some poisoned cigarettes in the skull, same poison, and they think there may have been some nasty stuff on the strings of your violin, so that’s been taken to a lab for testing.”  
  
“My violin?” Sherlock looked crestfallen.  
  
“I hope you weren’t planning on playing it tonight anyway, you promised a quiet night in for John, remember?” Greg reminded him.  
  
“Actually I love his violin playing,” John butted in and hopped off the stretcher. “There, all ready to go home. Shall we?”  
  
“Yes, let’s go.” Sherlock held out an arm, urging John to go first.  
  
“Mycroft has restocked your fridge. We didn’t find anything, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He left a few beers for you, figuring you could use those tonight.” Greg explained as they took the elevator down to his car.  
  
Sherlock ushered John in on the back seat, and then pushed in beside him, leaving Greg all alone up front. If Greg found that odd, he didn’t say anything. Sherlock spent the ride in silence, staring intensely at John’s face. Finally John crumbled, unable to take it any longer.  
  
“What are you staring at, Sherlock? What?” he asked, staring back.  
  
“You, trying to determine how you are. You’re very hard to read tonight, you’re normally quite easy,” Sherlock explained and kept on staring unabashedly.  
  
“Thanks a lot,” John answered and hurried to assure him, “I am fine, so stop that. We’re home now, anyway, so come on. Are you coming up, Greg?”  
  
“Oh yes, just gotta check that everyone’s out, and post the guards for tonight. Just inside the front door, right Sherlock? It’s gonna be bloody freezing tonight.”  
  
“No, they can stay out…” Sherlock began.  
  
“Of course inside,” John interrupted him. “Did you want to leave them in the street? A lot fat of good it would do us to have two icicles standing there all night. Inside, Greg. Upstairs, Sherlock,” he commandeered and opened the front door.  
  
The flat looked even better now. John noticed that the new cups and bowls were already replaced by another set. Mycroft wasn’t a man to take chances. There was no one in the flat, so Greg had a quick look around, and then bid them goodnight.  
  
“Wow, some day,” John said, going to the fridge to check the contents. Sherlock was already at his microscope, checking the sugar against a couple of reagents. “Want a beer, or want to test it first?” John asked, and Sherlock just held out a hand. John handed him an opened beer, and Sherlock took a pipette, getting out a drop, quickly testing it.  
  
He sat up, and looked at John. “Cheers, welcome home. Again.” He smirked as he drank, glad to have something a little stronger than tea. His heart was still behaving like a caged butterfly.  
  
“Yeah, that was some homecoming. Glad they’ve gone over everything now, though. Not that I don’t appreciate you double checking.” He nodded at Sherlock who nodded back, almost a humble gesture. “Do you have any idea yet who’s behind this?”  
  
“I have a few ideas, yes. Nothing solid yet though. I need more data,” he said and took his beer with him to his chair. He sank into it, looking around at his boringly clean flat.  
  
“Hmm, so dinner tonight?” John said as he sat down opposite Sherlock. “Shall we try out that ham in the fridge? There’s some potato salad too. And plenty of beer, oh, and there was a note from Mycroft on the fridge, Tom is coming at one tomorrow, to get that shoulder back on track.”  
  
“Hnng,” Sherlock grumbled, and took another swig of his beer. “What time is it?”  
  
John checked his watch. “Only six thirty, want to watch telly?”  
  
“I suppose it could help this place feel like our flat again. Pride and Prejudice?” he suggested.  
  
“I thought you preferred Dr Who?” John asked.  
  
“Tonight I would like something less scary, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Fine, fine.” John found the DVD, actually still dusty, which he proudly displayed to Sherlock. “See, some of our old dust is still here,” he laughed as he plopped it in the player. Between first and second episode they had dinner, and by the third episode they were into their fifth beer each, and getting rather tired.  
  
“You should go to bed,” Sherlock yawned.  
  
“So should you,” John countered.  
  
“I don’t want to. I’m still agitated.”  
  
“It’s not like it’s the first time someone has tried to kill you,” John huffed.  
  
“No, but it’s the first time you came that close to… well, you know.” Sherlock sighed deeply.  
  
“Well, if it makes you feel any better we are sleeping down here tonight, to stay close to you, in case there is any more trouble,” John announced. “Your bed is big enough.”  
  
“We?” Sherlock asked, his right eyebrow raised in a hairy question mark.  
  
“Yes, me and my Browning, it goes under the pillow.” John got up to go brush his teeth. “So are you coming to bed tonight, or are we sleeping alone?”  
  
“Not yet,” Sherlock said. “I have a few more samples to run, though I can’t be sure they aren’t contaminated by now, by whoever was here and switched the sugar. Damnation.” He steepled his hands and lost himself in thought for a long time, while John got ready for bed, and going to Sherlock’s room, climbed in.  
  
“You even have new sheets,” he called out to Sherlock from the bedroom. “Quite lovely, don’t stay up all night now.” There was no indication from Sherlock that he had heard him.  
  
It was hours later as the bed dipped roughly, as Sherlock sat down hard on the edge. “John, are you awake?”  
  
“Yes, I am now,” he answered, and then sighed, “well, actually, have been all along. Can’t sleep. What about you?”  
  
“I… I am not myself.” Sherlock said, very uncharacteristically.

“Oh, really? Who are you then?” John whispered.  
  
“No, I mean… I’m not in control. I can’t concentrate my thoughts and my body is strange. I don’t’ understand it.”  
  
Now John was really awake, and he sat up in bed, reaching out to Sherlock, trying to get hold of a hand to take his pulse. “What is strange?”  
  
“My hands, they’re shaking. My legs, are unstable. I feel…. Well I feel a lot, John. I don’t usually feel this much,” Sherlock complained.  
  
“But what do you feel? Nausea? Headache? Pain?” John finally got a hold of the hand, and it was indeed trembling rather badly.  
  
“No, nothing physical. I don’t feel sick. I feel… I don’t know. I don’t understand what I feel. Why do I tremble so? I have eaten and drunk the same as you tonight, and I tested everything. Nothing has been tampered with. So what is this caused by?” Sherlock sounded quite annoyed.  
  
“How bad is the trembling?” John asked, wracking his brain for any clue of the symptoms Sherlock was displaying. It came up blank. Instead he reached forward to draw Sherlock closer, so he could assess the extent of the tremors, and immediately ended up with an armful of Sherlock. His whole body was shaking as he pushed close to John, who automatically closed both arms around him, pulling him close to his chest. He lifted his right hand and stroked the wild curls. “There, just relax. I don’t think it’s anything dangerous. Just a… just responding to the stress of the week, I think. Ouch!” he winced as Sherlock’s arms closed around him, so tight that it was actually painful. “Let up a bit, breathing… you know?”  
  
“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed in response, his face buried in the crook of John’s neck, but he did let up a little bit, enough for John to breathe again.  
  
“God, what a week,” John agreed and let Sherlock sit there, just sit there and hold him. It was nice. It was as close to comfort as he had been in a long time. Sherlock might be trembling, but he still felt hard, muscular and safe to press against. And his hair smelled of sunshine. That was all John could come up with. The way a really warm summer day smells when you open the windows. He pressed his nose into the curls, inhaling deeply. Sherlock’s breathing was getting stronger, and the tremors seemed to be abating a bit. John started stroking Sherlock’s back, a mere response to distress, nothing more. Sherlock seemed to relax into the touch, and his breath fell heavy against John’s skin, just under his ear. John giggled a bit as it tickled, but then Sherlock moved his head and the giggling stopped. His skin was suddenly tingling and covered in goose bumps. Oh, it felt good. He felt like he was floating, held impossibly tight, and so warm. Maybe it was the meds kicking in with an after effect. Oh God, his neck felt so good. He felt a shiver run down his spine, and immediately Sherlock’s hand was there, soothing it.  
  
“Nearly lost you,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s neck, and suddenly the tears were back, and the trembling resurfaced as he held on to John and let it all out. He sobbed in heavy torrents, and John struggled to hold on to him. He must have pulled too hard, because Sherlock fell forwards, pushing John back unto the bed, landing on top of him. The sobbing continued, but Sherlock shifted position so he could turn his face and whisper directly in John’ ear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s too much, it hurts, I need… I don’t know what I need.”  
  
“Shh, just take it easy. We’re both alive. We’re fine, and yes, I need you too,” John answered, his instincts telling him what Sherlock’s problem was, and then he froze as Sherlock rolled fully on top of him, and it became very apparent what his need also entailed. It wasn’t just his muscles that were hard, he was sporting a very impressive erection, and it was pressing directly down on John’s… _erection? When did he… how had he… oh, the goose bumps!_ John’s brain was feebly trying to piece his reactions together, but all he could think about was that hard bulge against his and that slight pressure against his neck. Yes, that was definitely lips. Was Sherlock kissing his neck? God, Sherlock was kissing his neck while moving his groin ever so tantalisingly against John’s erection and it felt insanely good. This was crazy, they were both in shock. This was impossible. This was such a bad idea. This was so good. He pressed up against Sherlock, hearing a deep groan as they moved against each other, and then Sherlock’s mouth was on his, and he knew he was lost.                  
  
Sherlock kissed him. Their mouths came together in a crash of lips and tongue, and though Sherlock was a little clumsy at first it took him only seconds to improve, to probe John, to taste him, to hum in to his mouth in a way that made John’s cheeks glow. John’s fingers were buried desperately deep in Sherlock’s hair, pulling and pushing, his head moving about on the pillow seeking more of… everything.  
  
Sherlock broke the kiss, placing small butterfly kisses on John’s face, trying to hold it still. He looked intensely as him, as if trying to gauge whether he was doing right or wrong. “John, do you want this? Look at me.” Sherlock’s fingers clenched in John’s hair, attempting to hold the thrashing head still. “Are you sure, it’s not just panic? We’re not just… I don’t know?” His voice was thick with a desire he seemed to be bewildered by, but his fingers had no problems deciding, as he deftly removed his trousers and pants, and pulled his shirt over his head, before settling down on John’s chest again.  
  
John just whined and pulled at his own pyjamas, and Sherlock helped him get it off, throwing it on the floor. Their naked bodies slammed together, arms roaming over warm skin, grabbing and caressing.  
  
“I want it. I want you,” John panted, his body seeking more contact, grinding up against Sherlock. He almost whined when Sherlock gave him a gentle kiss before he pulled away and sat up, but Sherlock had a hand on his chest holding him down. He reached over to his night stand and got hold of something, and seconds later John felt long, warm but slick fingers close around his aching erection, firmly, warmly and oh so excitingly. He arched up into the warmth, his breath coming in small shocked gasps.  
  
“Ssshh, I’ve got you,” Sherlock assured him with a small, slightly crooked smile, his hand moving up and down with just the right pressure. “You’ll be fine, I’ll take care of you. Relax.”  
  
John tried to relax. He really did. And he was really not very good at it, and when he felt a finger move in between his buttocks and press gently but insistently he almost sat fully up. “Sherlock! No… I’ll… I’m…”  
  
“You’ll be fine. I won’t hurt you. I’m not going to take you. I’m just going to make you feel good with my fingers. Lie down. Don’t you trust me?”  
  
“I…yes, of course I trust you.” John didn’t sound entirely convincing, and he didn’t quite lie down, but kept elevated on his elbows, keeping an eye on what Sherlock was doing. He allowed the careful penetration, panting as the hand on his erection kept a steady pace, making him quite dizzy, but when a second finger was added, and their impossible length enabled Sherlock to push straight up on his prostate with his fingertips he slammed down on the mattress, his fingers clutching at Sherlock’s arms. Whether to stop or encourage none of them knew, least of all John.  
  
“John, listen carefully,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding low and concentrated, slightly out of breath as his fingers worked. “I am going to take you apart, John, and I need you to trust me.  Let go of my arms, and grab the headboard. I promise I won’t hurt you. ”  
  
John’s eyes were lidded as he looked at Sherlock and nodded, slowly and deliberately loosening his grip on Sherlock and moving his hands above his head to grasp the bed in a deadlock. “Please, yes, I do,” he promised Sherlock in an unsteady voice.  
  
“Good. Good, John,” Sherlock assured him and increased his pressure just slightly around John’s erection as he set the fingers inside him to press up as well as slightly in and out in a fluctuating rhythm. John was holding on to the headboard with white knuckles, but the rest of his body was writhing on the sheet. He had never felt anything like this. He had never even imagined anything like this. He never wanted it to end. And just as his mind had decided that nothing could be better than this, it got better. A wet warmth suddenly surrounded him and his eyes flew open to see Sherlock taking him in his mouth, lips tight, warm, moving insanely intimately on him. On their own volition his hands left the headboard and buried themselves in the crazy curls, desperately urging, thanking, and inspiring Sherlock to go on. He was only faintly aware of the embarrassing sounds he was emanating as he was worked with both fingers and mouth. Sherlock’s free hand stretched out and pinched John’s left nipple, quite hard, but he just mewled and arched into the touch, ready to take anything Sherlock would give.  
  
There were quite a few mentions of deities, and a bit of swearing, but most of the words leaving John’s mouth were really just nonsense. The bed and the mattress creaked in unison with his moans, and his panting became heavier. Sherlock’s fingers left his nipple and went to John’s scrotum, holding his balls as if he was weighing them. John was so close, and he started to buck into the warm mouth just as it disappeared, only to be replaced by a hand, the rhythm slightly faster than the mouth had been. John’s hands fell to the sheets while he mewled his approval, faintly aware that Sherlock was talking. He vaguely realised that it could only be him he was talking to so he worked hard on concentrating on the words.  
  
“John? John?” John opened his eyes a bit, sweat stinging them, making Sherlock appear fuzzy, as a watercolour image. He was staring hard at John, while his hands were working him over so incredibly efficiently.  “I want to see…, I’ve never seen… Is it good? Can you come like this?”  
  
John nearly chocked on a laugh. _Could he come?_ He nodded erratically at Sherlock, too far gone for words. The sight of Sherlock looking so intensely at him, his fingers working over his erection, his thumb occasionally caressing the tip, and Sherlock’s own erection, standing so hard against his stomach, small strands of pre-come dripping from it, the head red, swollen and untouched was the final straw. John’s fingers clawed at the sheets as he arched his back and felt his orgasm roll over his body, Sherlock stroking him through it while uttering soothing assurances, John’s ejaculate spilling out over Sherlock’s hand and onto John’s stomach and chest. The fingers inside him played a drum solo of grandiose proportions, milking John over and over till there was no more to come, and he lay shivering on the bed, eyes firmly closed as Sherlock gently withdrew his fingers.

  
John rolled on to his side, almost in a foetal position as tremors still surged through his body. He was working hard on regaining control of his breath, aware that he owed Sherlock something in return, that such an erection would be painful by now, he’d sustained it for so long, untouched. But just as he felt the world starting to solidify around him a deep guttural groan hinted that he may be too late, and when he felt a warm splatter against his buttocks a second later, he knew that he would have to wait repaying Sherlock for his pleasure.  
  
John had no idea how long had passed when he felt the mattress move, and Sherlock leave the bed. Shortly after he heard the shower come on, but he was too tired to even consider crawling that far to have a bath himself. Sherlock was probably not even coming back to bed. John would have to re-claim him from the new microscope, he bet himself. He realised that he was sporting a, probably silly, smile. This had been so intensely hot, that he had to place it on his top ten of best fucks ever. And he hadn’t even fucked anyone. How could Sherlock be such a turn on? And how could he himself be such a turn on to Sherlock? Had he actually come all over John’s arse, while looking at it? A wicked thought passed through John’s mind, and he managed to lift his hand to the nightstand, fumbling around till he found his phone. After a few futile attempts he had managed a respectable selfie of his arse, clearly draped in a curtain of elegant ejaculate. He managed a small laugh. This could come in handy as a distraction when Sherlock got too wrapped up in the work, or his own mind.  
  
The shower turned off, and to John’s surprise Sherlock returned to the bedroom carrying a wet towel, and a dry one. He cleaned John off gently, patting him dry, careful not to rub too hard on John’s oversensitive organ.  
  
“Thank you,” John mumbled, almost in control of his breathing now, “for all of it.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” He could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice as the mattress dipped when Sherlock climbed onto it again, scooting up behind John, spooning him.  
  
“Oh, you’re… we’re cuddling?” John was rather surprised by this gesture from Sherlock.  
  
“Of course we are, John. What kind of lover do you think I am?”  
  
There was still warmth in the voice, so John relaxed and let honesty be his guide. “The very best, actually,” he sighed, and meant it.  
  
“So, fumbling around with another man’s dick in the dark wasn’t so bad after all, huh? Perhaps try a leg over next time?” Sherlock almost giggled.  
  
The words were somewhat familiar, but it took John’s scrambled brain a while to remember where he’d heard them. _Wait. He hadn’t heard them! He’d said them!_  
  
“WHAT? You were listening to Greg and me talking about sex?” John was mortified.  
  
“You didn’t think the king of CCTV didn’t have his own dens covered, did you?” John could just feel how broad Sherlock’s smile was against the nape of his neck.  
  
“So, Mycroft showed it to you?” John was appalled.  
  
“Just that little bit. He sent it to me this morning, while I was in his office. He thought I might be interested, after I… left you at breakfast.” Sherlock explained. “Well, I was, a bit.”  
  
“And then what did you do with that information?” John wondered.  
  
“I asked Mycroft how to make it good, in case we ever ended up being… well, lovers like him and Greg.”  
  
“You asked your brother? Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes, on how to please me? I didn’t think you two got along that well.” John was glad the bedroom was dark; he was blushing like a teenager.  
  
“Well, he is my brother, and we do have our fights, but he’s also my confidant. Whom else should I have asked?”  
  
“Me, Sherlock. From now on, always me,” John assured him as he pulled the duvet and Sherlock’s arm tighter across his chest, and started to drift off to sleep.


	9. An arrested development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cosy comfortable morning turns into a terrible day as yet another dangerous threat is inflicted on Sherlock and John. Once again help is required from friends and family.

It was warm in the desert in the mornings. The nights were freezing cold, so you would clamp heavy blankets around yourself, and then wake up to the sensation you were inside a sauna, throwing everything off. John had spent so many freezing nights and boiling mornings that his body could easily adjust, but as his mind started to wake up to the sweltering warmth he had trouble recalling the preceding cold. Something was off. The blanket didn’t feel like army issue, and he was stark raving nude, not to mention there was an arm around him, and a body applied as a second skin against his back. There were strong muscled legs, a firm, chiselled chest, steady breathing in his ear, and small nibbles on his earlobe.  _Small nibbles on his earlobe!_ He was wide awake now.  
  
“Good morning. You took an age to wake up,” Sherlock whispered directly into his ear as if he was afraid to wake the rest of the world.  
  
“Good… wow, yeah. Good morning. I... I, err… That wasn’t a dream, was it?” John responded, gaining a few extra seconds to rein in his thoughts, who were far flung in distant corners of his body, the universe, and apparently, the desert. Images flashed by, all of them unnerving and very, very pleasurable, and the whole picture started to come together in John’s brain. Right, so they had actually gone ahead and done it. Well, done something. And the world hadn’t exploded, at least he hoped not.  
  
“Are you all right?” Sherlock pulled back a little, a hint of disappointment in his voice, so John hurried to assure him.  
  
“Never better. Slept like a baby. It was, erm... quite a performance last night. I’m impressed.” He smiled, turning his face so Sherlock could see it.  
  
“Impressed? It was hardly rocket science.” Sherlock frowned.  
  
“No, but for a first time, it was very promising. Well, not for me, I know I failed you miserably, but I’ll make that up to you. “  
  
“How did you fail me?” Sherlock rested his head on his elbow, looking down into John’s eyes, a puzzled look on his face.  
  
“I didn’t get a chance to… pay you back, pleasure you, give you a good seeing to. I mean you… did it on your own before I was able to… err, get it together, actually.”  
  
“Of course. That seemed the most effective solution at the time. I would never have fallen asleep if I hadn’t…”  
  
“Yes, yes of course, had to be seen to,” John hurried to concur. “I just mean, it should have been me that did it,” he elaborated.  
  
“I wasn’t sure you wanted to. You have always been rather vocal in the denial of your attraction to me,” Sherlock reminded him.  
  
“Yeah, well, I may have to change, or at least amend that a bit. It turns out there’s a fine line between ‘not gay’ and bi.” John cleared his throat and failed dismally to look innocent.  
  
“Amend away,” Sherlock said as he leant back and yawned hugely. “If you’re getting up now, make me a cup of tea.”  
  
“Oh, you want to get up now? You don’t want me to … you know… no morning boner or anything for me to play with?” John tried to get a gander under the duvet.  
  
“What? At ten o’clock? It’s technically still night, well at least only just turned early morning. I’m not awake to enjoy anything yet. So later, ok? Would have slept a bit longer if Tom wasn’t coming around, and if those nail clippings didn’t have to come out of the solution before then,” Sherlock complained.  
  
“I told you to keep details of your experiments to yourself.” John made a face and turned to roll into Sherlock’s arms, pulling him a little closer. “At least hold me a little before you kick me out of bed, you cretin,” he countered and pulled them tightly together, nuzzling his head against the skin till it fit under Sherlock’s chin, resting his face against his chest. It was warm, and comfortable, and John could easily go back to sleep in this position.  
   
Sherlock’s hand came up to cup the back of his head, his fingers trailing through the short hair, then playfully tracing the shell of the ear, before returning to stroke the hair. He smiled into the top of John’s head as he heard the deep moan the movement of his fingers caused.  
  
“You could lie here all day,” Sherlock stated. It was not a question.  
  
“Mmmh, mmhph,” John agreed. “Can’t  though. My lord and master has called for a cup of tea, and this humble slave must comply.  Would you like anything with your tea, oh exalted one?”  
  
Sherlock chuckled and reached down to slap John on the arse. “Yes, get into the kitchen and cook me some fucking eggs.” He howled with pain as John’s teeth clamped down on his nipple, and he pushed John out of bed, relieved that the teeth hadn’t taken the nipple with them.  
  
“Right, shower time,” John grinned as he picked himself off the floor, rubbing his sore arse. “And you can put the kettle on!” was the rejoinder as he vanished into the bathroom.  
  
He closed the door behind him, missing the look Sherlock gave him. Had he seen the adoration and love that followed every minute movement of his body out of the room, he would never have been able to leave.  
   
When John entered the kitchen, wrapped in Sherlock’s best light brown housecoat he huffed as he saw Sherlock perched at the kitchen table, wrapped _around_ the microscope and wrapped _in_ absolutely nothing.  
  
“Wear something, for Christ’s sake! I can’t toss eggs around while looking at _that_ ,” he stated while he quickly dipped to place a kiss on Sherlock’s left buttock, just to make his point.  
  
Sherlock twitched and looked up. “Relinquish my dressing gown and I shall consider it.”  
  
“Certainly not. Then _I_ shall be naked, and there is no way I’m cooking naked,” John countered.

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock answered absentmindedly, already absorbed into the black hole of his work. John sighed and went to Sherlock’s room, retrieving his bordeaux dressing gown from the closet, hidden behind four bespoke black jackets, returning to the kitchen to drape it around Sherlock, poking him till he lifted his arms and allowed John to dress him in it.

“So, eggs! Oh, lovely. I see that you didn’t manage to put the kettle on. Simple chemistry, Sherlock!” John’s arms flailed of their own volition in some form of explanation. “Water! Celsius! Boil! Oh, Sherl…” he exhaled, exasperated, but not surprised. “Couldn’t manage that much?” John complained as he filled the kettle, demonstrably hitting the on button hard. He got the eggs out of the fridge and slammed the frying pan on to the heater, pouring a bit of oil into it before turning to slap a couple of toast slices into the toaster. He wisely decided not to render a close examination of whether it was mould or poppy seeds on the crust. _Poppy seeds_ , he decided.  
  
He had to pry Sherlock off the microscope to eat the fried eggs and toast, insisting on eye contact at breakfast. Sherlock declared that John was a hopeless romantic. John declared that Sherlock could do the bloody dishes while he dressed upstairs.  
  
When he came back down again, feeling marvelous actually, in his best jumper and most comfortable jeans, and a brilliant tingly feeling in his entire being, Sherlock was fully dressed and on the phone with someone, and given the way he defended the expenditure of a good vet it had to be Mycroft. He checked the kitchen. The dishes had actually been done. He picked his jaw up from the floor and grabbed what appeared to be today’s papers from the kitchen counter, settling into his chair, doing his customary scan of news and scandals of London. After a while his attention was, however, invariably drawn to the ongoing conversation.

“Yes, it was, a great help actually, I’ll acknowledge as much.”  
“He certainly did, all over my hand. Most stimulating.”  
“No, only two.”  
“It seemed to be quite sufficient. I don’t think you can compare directly.”  
“No.”  
“No.”  
“Really?”  
“Would love to try.”  
“Not sure. Define virgin in this instance.”  
“In that case, yes.”  
“I wasn’t aware there was a deadline.”  
“That is just plain ridiculous. I will most certainly not.”  
“Not so. He’s is glorious to snuggle with.”  
“Oh, she is? Do give her my regards, and assure her I will resolve the entire mess shortly. I hope. And do tell her, her dog is fine. Oh, and pregnant.”  
“NO! I won’t call you when… when that. None of your business, brother dear. Your part in this is done.”  
“Yes, I will. Tomorrow then. Bye.”  
  
Sherlock ended the call and pocketed his phone, and John stayed well hidden and beet red behind his newspaper.

“Anything pertinent to the case in the papers?” Sherlock turned to John with his inquiry.  
  
“Yeah. No, actually.” John cleared his throat a couple of times. “Of course a few articles and lamentations about him, but nothing you would find of value. No smoking guns.”  
  
“No, no, there wouldn’t be. Not in the media,” Sherlock agreed. “I should like to look at last night’s police reports though, let me have your laptop.” He held out a hand and wriggled his fingers impatiently in John’s direction.  
  
“Get it yourself, you lazy sod. Anyway, why do you need mine? Use your own!” John wriggled his nose at him which earned him an immediate kiss on said nose, upon which Sherlock quickly straightened up and recomposed himself, pulling his jacket down in the back, leaving John silent and shell-shocked in his chair.  
  
“Because mine needs loading. Forgot to last night. Somehow,” he retorted as he went in search of John’s laptop, finding it on the sofa, half buried under a cushion.  
  
As Sherlock sat absorbed in the reports John’s phone rang. It was Greg. He answered it with a smirk, and went to the back of the kitchen for the talk, having a short but intense conversation before returning to his chair.  
  
“You talked to Lestrade,” Sherlock informed him over the rim of the computer, again not a question.  
  
“Just a bit,” John acknowledged.  
  
“That is a lovely colour on you.” Sherlock clamped down on his lower lip with the full strength of his front teeth to prevent the explosive grin lurking there from escaping.  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” John retaliated.  
  
“Love you too,” Sherlock said before giving up the pretense and crumbling forwards in a fit of giggles, trying to avoid the Union Jack pillow hurled at his face.  
  
Sherlock would probably have returned the pillow if his phone hadn’t rung again, the number making his countenance turn serious, and he answered it with a gruff “yes?”  
  
It was a long ten minutes later before he hung up and turned to John, a mix of awe and confusion on his face.   
  
“What was that about?” John asked him.  
  
“It was the clinic in Hertford. They have run several tests on Rain. They are not quite sure yet, but there is a good chance that he is not your usual run of the mill nutcase. Could be that he has a neurological condition that is actually chemically induced, much like the cerebral imbalance caused by Tourette’s, and thereby also within the possibility of a remedy, if not an all out cure. They want us to find some next of kin who can approve further trials, and possibly surgery. I had not anticipated that,” Sherlock allowed.  
  
“Hmm, where to find those?” John wondered out loud.  
  
“I’ll ask Mycroft to go through the school records, find where he worked. They would have information of a next of kin.” Sherlock was already busy texting Mycroft. While they waited they trawled the internet for information about Rain, but they came up empty handed.  
  
They still hadn’t had a response from Mycroft when Tom turned up, so Sherlock resigned himself to the training, while John returned to his newspaper. However, after only a few minutes of work out Tom stopped, frowning. “What have you done to that arm? It’s overworked if anything,” he said as he gently prodded the muscles, and John’s facial colour altered towards the scarlet end of the spectrum.  
  
“Filing,” Sherlock explained with as straight a face as he could muster, which earned him a very odd look from Tom.  
  
“Well,” the physiotherapist continued, “you shouldn’t move it about any more today. I think I’ll just give you a massage, to loosen the muscles a bit. Remove your shirt, please.”  
  
This brought John out of his reverie and he folded his newspaper, dropping it to the floor. “No need, Tom. If it’s just a massage he needs today I am quite capable of giving him one.”  
  
“It’s no problem,” Tom responded. “I’ve been paid for an hour’s treatment anyway.”

“No, really. I insist.” John got out of his chair, and walked over to the sofa where Sherlock and Tom were seated, placing a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock could not hide the little twist that usually meant he was holding back a grin.  
  
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll just pack up and come back tomorrow, all right?” Tom didn’t bother to hide his grin as he got up and retrieved his coat, hastily dressing and waving goodbye as he left.

“Aren’t we possessive,” Sherlock grinned, unable to hold it back any longer as he heard the front door slam shut.

“Not at all, but you may as well avail yourself of having a doctor in the house,” John returned.  
  
“But of course, so shall we?” Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt, but stopped as he heard footsteps up the stairs.  
  
“Just passed Tom on the way out, hi,” Greg said as he hurried into the flat. John and Sherlock both turned to him, a bit startled.  
  
“Hi Greg, what are you doing here?” John wondered.  
  
“Uhm, trouble, I’m afraid. Not much time, just came to warn you really. Case is out of my hands, I’m afraid, it’s just that the sample that we lost turned up and…” Greg’s explanation was interrupted by the doorbell. “Damn, out of time.” He went to the door, peeking down the stairs, seeing Mrs Hudson answering the front door. “Try not to worry too much, John, I’ll do what I can and… blast! It’s Dimmock.”  
  
D.I. Dimmock was up the stairs in no time at all, followed by two uniformed officers.  
  
“What the…” was all Sherlock got out before Dimmock spoke.  
  
“John Watson. You are under arrest for the murder of Langdale Pike. You are required to accompany us to the station for interrogation, after which you will be transferred to a cell pending your hearing.” Dimmock motioned to one of the officers who spun John around and slapped handcuffs on him.  
  
Sherlock sprang into action, but Lestrade was faster. He had after all expected Sherlock to make  a move, so he was able to restrain him, physically holding his arms pressed to his side, while he whispered, “Don’t, Sherlock. Just don’t. It’ll not help John at all if you get arrested too. You can help him better from the outside.”  
  
“Take him down to the car,” Dimmock said, as he turned to Sherlock and Greg. “What are you doing here, Lestrade? You have been taken off this case because of your relation to the suspect.”  
  
“I know. I know,” Greg said, maintaining his hold on a fuming Sherlock. “It’s because of the family relation I’m here. Just a friendly visit.”  
  
“Sure,“ Dimmock replied, his tone of voice making it quite clear that he didn’t buy that for a second. He turned to leave. “See you at the Yard,” he said, and with that he left.  
  
“Let Me Go!” Sherlock spat, and Greg loosened his hold and stepped back. “What the hell just happened? How could they make such a stupendously idiotic mistake?”  
  
“The blood… the sample we couldn’t find? It turned up… it was on Anderson’s desk, it would seem. And the DNA found on the crime scene matched… John’s.”  
  
Sherlock stared at Greg open mouthed, shaking his head as if he could dislodge the stupidity of the world from it this way. “Just happened to turn up on Anderson’s desk? Just happened to be John’s?”  
  
“I know, I know, but I’m off the case. I can’t help you here. Tell you what, I’m calling Mycroft. This happened so fast I didn’t get a chance to.”  
  
“Yes, you do that!” Sherlock said and threw himself down on the sofa, lying with his knees bent, his back turned to Greg.  
  
Mycroft turned up a mere twenty minutes later.  
  
Sherlock was still lying on the sofa, facing the wall.  
  
“Are you sulking?” Mycroft asked him, incredulous.  
  
“No, he’s not,” Greg shook his head, and walked over to his lover, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek as he whispered “he’s crying, has been since they took John.”  
  
“Oh dear,” Mycroft sighed and bent down over Sherlock, ruffling his hair lightly. “We shall have to sort that out. Any theories, little brother?”  
  
“A frame, obviously,” Sherlock sniffled, without moving. “We must be a serious threat to someone with powerful resources. A blood sample that vanished suddenly turns up on Anderson’s desk? A likely tale, indeed! I can’t believe that idiot of an inspector fell for it. And I had such high hopes for him.”  
  
“It does sound a tad too convenient, I agree. Something will have to be done, “Mycroft announced.  
  
“Send your people to the Yard to get him out!” Sherlock begged.  
  
“No. This one I shall handle myself,” Mycroft surprised them both by saying. “I’m going down there now. Gregory, kindly stay with my brother.“  
  
Sherlock turned around and sat up, looking up at Mycroft. “Bring him home to me.”  
  
“I shall certainly endeavour to,” Mycroft promised and left.

 

 

 


	10. In a relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not easy but John is returned to Sherlock and Sherlock shows John how very grateful he is by letting John teach him what a leg over means. It was pretty much as he figured. Only a lot hotter.

 

  
  
  
If someone had told Greg Lestrade one month ago that he would spend a long April afternoon on a sofa, hugging and comforting a lovelorn Sherlock Holmes, he would have locked them up on the spot. He would have deemed them too mentally unbalanced to be unleashed unto the general population of London. “I told John you had it bad,” he said to Sherlock at one point, but that had only increased the sobs, so he shut up again.

  
It was nearly two o’clock, and Greg’s shirt was drenched when Sherlock suddenly uncurled himself from his chest and got up, straightening out his shirt and in a very sniffly voice declared that this was a waste of his faculties, and he would be in the lab from now on, looking for the only thing that really mattered: proof.  
  
Greg heartily agreed and led the younger man out to the bathroom. “We need to get your eyes washed with some cold water to take away the swelling, and you seriously need to blow your nose, Sherlock.” He ran the faucet and stepped out to give him some privacy. He went to the kitchen and made two cups of tea, texting Mycroft asking for any kind of development. The answer was a disheartening ‘not yet’. He was a bit worried. If Mycroft, who in essence _was_ all the king’s men, couldn’t get John out of trouble, then who could?  
  
Sherlock emerged, looking almost like himself. He accepted the cup and went to the fridge to retrieve a few platefuls of samples Greg did not want a closer look at.  
  
“It is apparently imperative to establish who else were in that flat. I shall need DNA samples of everything from there, absolutely everything, and we shall have to compare it to anyone who has ever lived there, and anyone who has ever been there, including your officers,” he declared, preparing the first sample.  
  
“That is a lot of DNA-tests, it’ll cost a fortu…” Greg started but was cut off by a glare that could have turned orange juice to sherbet had it lingered long enough. “Right, I’ll talk to Anderson. I will. Stop glaring! We don’t have anyone else who can do that. And Donovan will have to hunt down all the samples. I warn you, they are not going to like it.”  
  
“Don’t care. Get them started,” Sherlock informed him and began his first test while Greg busied himself on his phone.  
  
“All set then?” Sherlock asked him when Greg got back, without raising his eyes from the microscope  
  
“They have been set to work, yes. Grumbling and protesting, as anticipated. And you? If you let your mind off the pressing need for proof for a second, how are you holding up? Can you, at least _now_ , acknowledge your love for John, if just to me? It is painfully obvious at present, even though I’ve seen it for years, possibly even before you did.” Greg seated himself across the table from Sherlock, sipping his tea.  
  
“Don’t be absurd, Gregory,” Sherlock snorted. “How could you possibly have known before me? Hardly feasible. I have always loved him. Anyone with half a brain would have seen that.”  
  
“Does that mean I have more or less than half a brain?” Greg offered a small smile as he sipped, getting up to put the kettle on for another round.  
  
“Ask my brother. He seems to think the world of you. I doubt he’d do that if you were on the lesser side. Though you do a damned good job at hiding it sometimes,” Sherlock snorted  
  
“Oh, as if you would work with me if I weren’t in your acceptable half of the... Excuse me, I’m buzzing.” He stood and dug his phone out. “Yes, love? I am, and he is too. So?” Greg took a deep breath, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock. “Oh, yes. I can absolutely confirm that he is an idiot.” He giggled a bit. “You really? Seriously? Good luck with that. Call me as soon as you know? Thanks. Love you… Yes, yes, I know you can’t say it. Bye.” He hung up and answered the urgent question in Sherlock’s eyes. “He’s going out to find a high court judge, a friend of his, they are apparently quite loath to let John go.”  
  
Sherlock smashed his teacup against the floor in frustration, immediately looking around for more items to take his anger out on, but Greg quickly removed the sugar bowl and milk jug. His anger didn’t extend to smash his microscope, after all.  
  
“Leave a few cups intact for John’s return, will you please?” Greg asked him, putting a soothing hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, feeling the tension running through him. “You know he’ll bring him home. It’s Mycroft, all right, Sherlock? Has he ever failed you?”  
  
Sherlock just snorted in a rather derisive fashion and wrenched his shoulder free. He knelt to retrieve the shards of the cup and binned them. “I’ll have another cup if you’re making it,” he said to Greg and went back to lose himself in his work.  
  
Greg made them another round of tea, and settled down to wait silently, not really wanting to rock the boat by offering any more comments. They waited in uneasy silence as Sherlock examined slide after slide, making hasty notes for each of them in an outdated calendar, the pages crowded with his scribbles.  
  
Around five o’clock a car pulled up by the kerb. Sherlock didn’t stir, but Greg went to the window and looked down. He sighed heavily with relief, and that made Sherlock look up. “Yes, it’s them. They’re home, Mycroft is just...” He was interrupted as Sherlock zapped out the door and down the stairs, slamming into John who had just walked through the front door, wondering if Sherlock would have missed him, since they had, after all, had a kind of spectacular night together, but still it wasn’t Sherlock who’d shown up at the Yard making a fuss and getting him out, having a luxury car waiting just outside the main entrance.  
  
So the kiss took John by surprise. He knew that Sherlock was hot blooded, a fast learner and of a certain temper, but the hurricane of emotions that were lavished on him after a tedious afternoon at The Yard nearly bowled him over. At one point he actually worried whether the wall would hold up. He was vaguely aware of Mycroft passing them, going upstairs, and Mrs Hudson looking into the hallway to see what the fuss was about, and disappearing muttering something like ‘oh my, that was  a long time in the making.’ It was not the kind of kiss you’d normally execute in public, but there wasn’t a lot of normal about either Sherlock or their relationship, so he let himself be swept along on the waves of passion. Sherlock’s lips seemed determined to seal them together entirely while his tongue played in John’s mouth, licking his tongue and his teeth, then focusing entirely on  sucking his tongue, moaning into his mouth, and then the seal was spectacularly broken and Sherlock’s tongue exploded everywhere outside John’s mouth; on his lips, on his jaw, his neck, in his ear, back on his neck, licking a long stroke back up to the lips, biting them for a fraction of a second before sucking on the tongue again and John was falling, falling, falling, clinging to Sherlock, moaning his name, pleading for more, his own mouth searching for skin when it wasn’t covered by the other man’s lips. He was barely aware that his fingers were painting intricate patterns clawing up and down Sherlock’s back, having pulled the shirt out of his trousers, almost pulling the striving buttons out of existence. Finally, finally, Sherlock slowed down and let their lips part as he rested his forehead against John’s. “I suppose we should get upstairs to the others?” he panted with obvious regret in his voice.  
  
“I’m definitely going to need a minute here, Sherlock,” John panted heavily, wondering if he could just ‘adjust himself’ out of this predicament, but it didn’t exactly seem like a realistic outcome, unless a miniature ice queen would take pity on him and release a small avalanche on his balls. No such entity appeared.

“Don’t take too long. My brother is not of the patient persuasion,” Sherlock retorted even though he didn’t seem too convinced at all that going upstairs was a good idea. Never the less he tucked his shirt into his trousers again, starting upstairs, just throwing a casual remark back to John across his shoulder, “the sooner we get rid of them, the sooner we can have dinner in bed. And I only have one thing on the menu tonight; you!”  
  
John ran up the stairs after him and actually passed Sherlock in the doorway, seating himself on the sofa, grabbing a cushion to press against his lap, pretending that everyone in the room didn’t already know what he was hiding.

“I am sorry about the bullet proof windows,” Mycroft offered as Sherlock came through the door, panting slightly, his gaze searching out John, his features automatically adorned with smile wrinkles as his eyes found him, “they do tend to increase the heat in the room. I’ll see to having some sort of air venting system installed. It would appear you may need it, John looks way too warm for the season.” Mycroft pretended a small cough to hide his laugh and was unable to duck in time to escape a thump to the back of his head from Greg who was grinning quite openly.  
  
“Yes, fine!” Sherlock dismissed, throwing himself down on the sofa next to John, oblivious to the presence of his brother and Greg, his eyes burrowing so deep into John’s soul that both their lines of ancestors started to rise from their graves to see what the fuzz was about.  
  
“Sherlock? SHERLOCK?” Mycroft bellowed. “We DO have to talk about this case, you know. I can’t just keep on piling lawyers, judges, bodyguards and vets into it. I lost my best and only friend, and now...” And then he had to pause to place an urgent kiss to the forehead of a frantic DI Lestrade who was clawing at his arm while his huge eyes were doing their best impression of a homeless starving cocker spaniel. “No, my darling, you are not my best friend. You are my north and south pole, my morning and evening star, my entire reason for getting out of bed in the morning and back into it at the drop of a hat, you’re not even close to merely being a friend, my love… but I digress,” he said and returned his attention to Sherlock, as a relieved Greg sat back down. “You see, I am worried I may also lose my younger and only brother, who gives so little care for himself that he sends both himself and his amour to the hospital within a week. I think it’s about time to escalate the resources of the brilliant deductive mind of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Capital idea, brother, and as soon as John and I are done with our very immediate plans, I’ll get onto that straight away,” Sherlock retorted, his eyes not leaving John for a second. “Please send me all the information you have acquired regarding Rain’s occupation so I can find his next of kin, and tell The Yard to fire Dimmock, dim indeed.”  
  
“Well, therein lies a problem. I was able to get John released, but they will not drop the charge. The ‘evidence’ of course wouldn’t hold up in court, and they know that, not to mention that John never even met Langdale, but Dimmock is a very stubborn man, and he is convinced that he can’t have made a mistake. But you see, you must find the real murderer soon in order to banish this shadow from the good doctor’s name.”  
  
“Yes, there is that, Sherlock,” John elaborated. “I won’t be allowed to work at the clinic while I have a murder charge hanging over my head.”  
  
“I wouldn’t let you out of my sight before this case was done anyway,” Sherlock assured him with a little smile.  
  
John smiled back at him, and ever so subtly licked his lower lip, the pink tongue commanding all of Sherlock’s attention as it travelled the length of John’s mouth, blithely ignoring the presence of Mycroft and Greg.  
  
Mycroft would have said something about sentiment and the waste of energy on feelings if he hadn’t been so spectacularly biased in this particular field himself lately. Instead he saw no reason to prolong the unavoidable and indicated his head in the direction of the door to Greg and they got up to leave.  
  
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Mycroft admonished them.  
  
“Their first shag? Isn’t that setting the bar a little high, considering there is nothing you won’t do?” Greg teased him and earned himself a hard slap on the arse as he reached the top of the stairs, grinning as he ran down ahead of Mycroft.  
  
Before Mycroft closed the front door behind him he called up “Don’t forget to use lubrication. I’ve stocked all the surfaces in the bedroom.”  
  
“Goodbye Mycroft,” was the only answer he got and he turned to advice the guards to stay outside on the curb for a couple of hours, at least till it got too cold to stay out.

John hadn’t waited for Mycroft to exit the front door before he was in Sherlock’s lap, his legs folded around the detective. He was lapping at the pale throat, sucking and humming against the taught skin, relishing the moans this pulled from Sherlock and the way his hands roamed uncontrollably up and down John’s back and down across his thighs.  
  
“I _have_ to get out of these trousers now, they’re killing me,” John moaned against Sherlock’s mouth.

 “I have an imprint of my zipper on the underside of my erection,” Sherlock admitted, “I fear it may be permanent.”  
  
“No, no, don’t worry, “John couldn’t quite suppress a laugh, “I assure you, I’ll rub it off,” he emphasised with a sweet laugh that made Sherlock’s heart take an extra beat.  
  
Sherlock took a moment to marvel at John’s ability to twist his world and his beliefs. He had always expected sex to be something that would steal his faculties, numb his mind and deduction capabilities, and be so serious it would render Kierkegaard light amusement. He had had no idea that a sex life meant humour, laughter, bantering with your partner; needing to hold, caress, kiss, and drown. Drowning in your partner’s eyes seemed to him the sweetest death he had ever heard of and he yearned for it. John was smiling at him with that piercing stare, the corners of his mouth almost reaching his earlobes on either side, and Sherlock felt this was where they should have been all along, that it was merely a thin veil of fabricated existence that had been lifted between them, one that society had placed there out of convention rather than necessity. He was home, finally. He cupped John’s face in his hands and finally spoke the words, enunciating them carefully, “You are my best friend, and I love you.”  
  
John was stunned, but only for a second. He leant forward a few inches to close the distance between them and whispered “We are even more than that, and I shall show you how tonight,” before sealing his lips against Sherlock’s while his hands pulled down the offending zipper.  
  
“Here? On the sofa?” It was Sherlock’s turn to look shocked.  
  
“Not sure I can make it to the bedroom,” John admitted as he pulled on Sherlock’s trousers while nuzzling against his neck.  
  
“We should though,” Sherlock gasped.  
  
“In three-two-one then,” John breathed out and let go of Sherlock as if he was a burning hot frying pan, getting off the sofa and sprinting to the bedroom, pulling his jumper over his head as he went, throwing it as he passed the kitchen, not even noticing that it draped itself protectively around the microscope.  
  
When passing Sherlock fleetingly noticed the jumper on the microscope but it didn’t really register as he was busy pulling his shirt off, barely noticing the ripping sound as the buttons careened into the newly purchased cups or bounced off the surface of the fridge. He hopped on one leg as he entered the bedroom while he pulled his trousers off, falling onto the bed on top of John who had almost, but not quite, got out of his jeans that were caught around his ankles. They spent a few frantic minutes clawing at the remaining clothes before they were finally gloriously naked and rutting against each other with the enthusiasm of hobbits finding a mushroom field.  
  
“You can, you know,” Sherlock panted into John’s mouth as he lay on top of him looking for somewhere his hands could find naked skin he hadn’t touched before. He was running out.  
  
“I can? I can what?” John panted as he arched up against Sherlock’s body, whining every time he felt the awesome heat of Sherlock, any part of Sherlock. The chest was the warmest point for only a fraction of a second before it changed to the stomach, and then it was the thighs, and the groin and the neck, _oh hell, the entire guy was just hot to move against_ , he decided and burrowed his teeth into the collarbone hovering directly above him, and he relished the scream. _That_ , too, was hot.  
  
“You can do what you want, what you said to Greg you wanted, the leg thing.” He whimpered as he felt the length of John’s arousal slide against his own.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock, it’s not really much to do with the leg, it’s just a saying,” John stroked the wild curls away from a sweaty forehead.  
  
“I know. I’m not that naïve,” he said and dipped to bite John back while he reached out to his nightstand, grabbing one of the nine bottles of lube Mycroft had placed there. He planted a mental note in the foyer of his mind palace; _Overzealous bastard, must remember to jibe him back._ He pressed the bottle into John’s hand, rolling over on his side. “How do you want me? On my back or stomach?”  
  
John could picture a hundred ways in which he wanted Sherlock, so he was glad he only had to choose between two. “On your stomach, that’ll be easier the first time,” John said, his voice quavering a bit. He had to bite his tongue as Sherlock turned over, displaying that long slim back, and those round buttocks. Why the hell hadn’t he just believed Greg the first time? This looked more mouth-wateringly enticing than any woman he’d ever been with. He couldn’t resist it but dipped his head to place a kiss to each perfectly rounded peach, before biting into the left buttock. Sherlock yelped, and he let go. “Sorry, just too irresistible,” he grinned. Now make yourself comfortable, I’m going to take my time preparing you, ok?”  
  
Sherlock shivered as he pulled a pillow under himself, holding on to it so tightly that the fabric wrinkled.  
  
“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to do what you did to me last night, and I didn’t look like it hurt, did I?” John bent down and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s chin.  
  
“No, you looked fine, Oh, God, _so_ fine,” Sherlock remembered and shivered from head to toe.  
  
“Good, then let’s see if we can’t make you enjoy this too.” John opened the bottle and covered the fingers of his left hand in the slick substance. With his right hand he parted Sherlock’s buttocks slightly before he let his index finger stroke up and down the cleft, moving all the way around the anus every time he passed it, but only with a feather light touch. Sherlock visibly relaxed under him, so he got a little bolder; at his next pass, he pushed lightly in, but only with the fingertip, before he resumed stroking the warm skin. He kept this up for a while and then increased his pressure a little with each pass till his finger was moving freely in and out to the first knuckle. He stopped stroking and concentrated on that one finger, pushing in with minute movements, before pulling all the way out again. He added more lube and pushed into the second knuckle, holding still there. “How is it?”  
  
“Remarkably uneventful, so far,” Sherlock said, though a tremor in his voice betrayed his calm.  
  
“Oh good. Then I can move on,” John said and pushed his finger in as far as he could go, increasing the downwards pressure till the muscles in Sherlock’s back suddenly tensed up like sheer rock. “Still uneventful?” he asked, shaking his head a bit to dispel a few drops of sweat running down his cheek.  
  
“Gissiga…. Wessiuuh…,” Sherlock said before getting it together and managing a whispered “It is quite good.”  
  
“Then let’s make it better, shall we?” John whispered back and withdrew his finger, adding more lube and inserting two fingers, slowly, so slowly, till he reached his goal and pressed down again. This time Sherlock couldn’t help a buck of his hips, and John hissed at the sight. Oh, how he wanted to be inside him. He was so hard it was almost painful, but he had to take his time preparing Sherlock, so he bit his lip and started moving his fingers in and out, pressing down every time he was the furthest in. He hadn’t done this for more than a few minutes before Sherlock started writhing under him. _Oh yes, that was a sight._ “Can you handle more?” he asked, his voice barely under control.  
  
Sherlock nodded and intensified his death grip on the pillow, arching his back invitingly, and John immediately accepted and moved in with three fingers. When the first push came Sherlock was unable to hold back a yelp nor stop his hips from bucking up against John in a frantic search for more contact. John had to still his hips with his right hand as he worked his fingers in and out, as deep as he could go each time, feeling the muscles around him relaxing. It was almost time. He stilled his fingers buried deep inside and concentrated on massaging the prostate with pushes and as much movement as his fingertips could manage in the constricted space.  
  
“Almost there, Sherlock. You are about as ready as you can get. And I really can’t wait much longer,” John panted.  
  
“Ah, nggh, good. Yes, please. ‘m ready,” Sherlock assured him.  
  
“Condoms? Did Mycroft think of that?” John looked around, mortified that he hadn’t thought of that himself.  
  
“You’re a doctor, oh uh, yes, there… and I’m a virgin… John, I think we’ll be fine,” Sherlock managed with some difficulty. “It’s not likely I’ll be impregnated.”  
  
“Very unlikely, yes,” John agreed and used lubrication on himself quite generously with his free hand, sans condom, while reciting the bone structure of the foot to himself to keep his arousal in check. He looked down at the thrashing body, wondering how to go about this best. Without too much ado his mind informed him that it was suffering from an insatiable hunger for Sherlock’s kisses and just like that he knew just what to do. He withdrew his fingers carefully, and stroked Sherlock’s thigh, giving him a small tap on the hip to get his attention. “You, you gorgeous thing, are ready for me, so please turn around. I must see you as I… as we…,” his mouth was suddenly very dry as Sherlock turned around and looked at him with lidded eyes. He was sweating,  his hair plastered onto his forehead, he was flushed red all the way down his chest which was sporting some very hard nipples, coming in second in hardness to the proudest erection John had ever seen, and he had to have it all right now. He lay down between Sherlock’s legs, peripherally aware that Sherlock bent them out of pure instinct, making John’s access easier. He gasped for air as he guided the head in between the buttocks, nearly yelling as it penetrated that first muscle, so tight, so impossibly tight, too tight, he would be hurting Sherlock, he couldn’t do this.  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” John panted, halting his movements.  
  
“Why?” Sherlock groaned, stilling his hands on John’s back.  
  
“This must be hurting you so bad, it’s too tight, I can’t go on…”  
  
“Stop now and we will have issues.” Sherlock’s legs came up around John’s body as he locked his ankles across John’s tail bone.  
  
“Really?” John’s eyes searched Sherlock’s face for signs of distress.  
  
“Move!” Sherlock answered and John tried to push away. “Not away! Move inside me! Now, now, for all that you hold dear. Please, John, don’t be obtuse!”  
  
That was all that John needed to hear. He bent down over Sherlock, moving into the heat till he was surrounded by it, his world honed in and his breath caught in it, his consciousness focused on this single point in time, this warmth, this love, this incredible sensation about to engulf his soul. But before he completely lost himself he managed to whisper “If you don’t tell me if it hurts I will kill you personally, and then put you over my knee.”  
  
“Oh, do talk dirty to me, John.” Sherlock smiled at him and then grabbed John’s head, crushing their lips together as he tried to buck under John, his tongue assaulting the sweetness of his love. An entirely new concept in Sherlock’s life.  
  
But John had no intention of talking. He delved into the kiss with enthusiasm as he began the dance of the beast of two backs. He pulled out slowly and pushed in again. The lube was working fantastically and Sherlock was adjusting to his girth with his usual adaptation to any situation, so John started to move in earnest. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind at all, as a matter of fact, his hands in John’s hair became more insistent, more frantic, and more exploratory as they started to roam down John’s back, grabbing, caressing, and groping with a rhythm corresponding to John’s.  
  
Their moans were a symphony that would alas in no known universe translate to the violin, but never the less Sherlock swore a silent oath that he would try till his dying day.  
  
It was inevitably silent as he was rendered unable to speak, limited to guttural sounds and primordial instinctive behaviour, like rutting up against John while pulling at him to get him closer. John felt the frantic need and luckily found the faculties in his brain to act on it; he heaved himself up on one arm and moved the other between them, finding Sherlock’s burning erection, closing his fingers around it, damned and determined not to leave him hanging two nights in a row.  
  
Sherlock reacted pretty much as soda does when you dump a Mentos in it. He exploded up against John. His eyes flew wide open and his mouth was frozen in a non-vocalised _oh_. John didn’t know whether to frown or smile as his shoulders were grasped in a desperate hold, Sherlock digging his fingers into his flesh as he discovered that his body wasn’t always in his control.  
  
“It’s ok, Sherlock, it’s supposed to feel like this,” John soothed him as he stroked the leaking erection. He had no need to add lubrication to his hand, finding plenty streaming liberally from the opening, using his thumb to smear it, which made Sherlock gasp again, and the fingers to close even harder on the flesh of John’s shoulder. “You can come, just let it go,” John wasn’t exactly sure he was making sense as he small talked Sherlock towards an orgasm, being so close himself, but he kept up a litany of encouragement as he pounded into Sherlock while stroking him, increasing the speed of both just a fraction as he felt the pinnacle approaching.  
  
It was Sherlock who lost to stamina first, stammering something that could have been John’s name or the ultimate solution to Pi, none of them was ever sure, but there was no mistaking that is was epic to John, as he saw Sherlock arch his back and throw his head down on the pillow, hollowing something inaudible while his cock shook in John’s hand and spilled rivulets of ejaculate on John’s chest. Sherlock’s entire body was shaking, but it was the internal muscle spasms that pulled John over the edge with him as he was milked mercilessly, probably while screaming Sherlock’s name, or something like that, but they were never going to ask the neighbours what it actually was.

They came to an hour later, famished, sticky and kissing. They showered, ordered pizza, ate it in bed and discovered that there were desserts that were even better than pudding. _Now_ John figured what Greg meant with liking _that_. John came three times that evening, Sherlock four. Well, John owed him one.

 


	11. To rebuild a mathematician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, according to Mrs Hudson. According to John it’s something you have in private though. As for the mathematician, things are happening (he would have flunked me for that vague description).

 

 “Yoo hoo? I thought you boys might need a cooked breakfast, what with all that workout last night,” Mrs Hudson brazenly announced, slamming through the bedroom door to Sherlock’s delight and John’s mortification at ten in the morning.

“Mrs Hudson, I’m not dressed,” John protested and pulled frantically at the duvet, covering his chest.  
  
“Oh dearie, don’t you worry. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.” She set the tray down on the dresser, coming over to remove the remaining bottles of lube from the nightstand to make room for the breakfast tray. John impersonated a raspberry as she moved them down to the floor.  
  
“It’s… fine,” he declared. “All fine.”

“Yes, now it is,” she smiled at John.  “So tea, beans on toast, double eggs, fried potatoes, mushrooms and tomatoes. And sausages, of course,” she winked at Sherlock, tucked behind John, “’cause you like them.”  
  
“I do indeed, Mrs Hudson, thank you” the owner of the deep baritone voice informed her, without removing his nose from the back of John’s neck where he was happily inhaling the scent of panic rising from John. “But do indeed just leave it on the table, because you are giving my lover a small panic attack, and we do not want more hospital visits for the considerable future.”  
  
“Oh dear God, no,“ she agreed and turned on her heel. “Enjoy your meal. I’ll be out for lunch with Mrs Turner today, we’re comparing notes,” she giggled with a slight edge to her laughter that put John in mind of Faust, well, a friend of his anyway.  
  
“We’re installing locks today,” John said as he extricated himself from Sherlock’s arms, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard while grabbing a cup of tea and handing it to Sherlock.  
  
“Why would we want to do that? It would keep the housekeeper out,” Sherlock protested vehemently as he elbowed himself up and accepted the cup.  
  
“She is not our housekeeper!” John reminded him.  
  
“Oh, do keep up John, of course she is.” Sherlock smirked as he sipped the perfect mix of Earl Grey and Lapsang Souchong, the smoky flavour curling around his tongue and caressing his pallet as always when Mrs Hudson made the tea. He made a mental note to himself to make sure she would teach John how to make it. The combination of John and perfect tea was just… well, perfect, he thought. “Why else would she be bringing us breakfast?”  
  
“Because… because…” John acknowledged defeat and gave up on his claim, appreciating that it was most likely years ago that Mrs Hudson gave up the fight against being a housekeeper. And so it was time that he did it too. “Ok, I guess she is, but then we need new house rules on when to walk into the bedroom.”

“You can walk into my bedroom anytime you want,” Sherlock told him as he slurped the tea audibly.  
  
“OUR bedroom,” John corrected him. “Unless you want to sleep alone again?”  
  
“I shall never sleep alone again, given a choice, even if it means sitting up all night with you holding hands with influenza victims till you can treat them and send them home.”  
  
That was a scenario that John had never imaged, and he huffed as he pictured Sherlock suffering the ordeal of ordinary _sick_ people, just to be near him. “Erm, you really do have it bad, huh?” John didn’t really know what else to say, his heart constricting at the thought of being so thoroughly loved by such a sensitive heart.  
  
“What does it mean, ‘having something bad’? Greg insisted on it too. Is it a malady?” Sherlock said as he reached over John for his plateful of fry-up, and a fork.  
  
“It just means you are in love,” John explained, looking at Sherlock eating. The realisation that ‘in love’ was a pretty perfect description of what was happening to him right now hit him fairly hard. It was exactly as it had been with Sarah some years back, exactly as he had done it since he was a teenager, and surprisingly there didn’t seem to be any way his sensory perception could tell a significant difference between those heartthrobs and this time, even though it was with a man. Well, sort of. A sort of man that made his heart jump in his chest when he looked at him, feeling like a rabbit in headlights when aquamarine orbs were turned his way, and rendered speechless when followed by a brilliant smile, just for him.  
  
“Sentiment, John?” Sherlock asked him as he bit down on a sausage.  
  
“Yes, sentiment, my love,” John answered and feasted on the smile the endearment earned him.  
  
“I suppose I may have to revisit my estimation of the idiom since the change of status in our relationship.” Sherlock smiled as he used his toast to mop up some egg.  
  
“It’ll come to you,” John smiled, safe in the knowledge that everything would be all right now, and for a long time. Just possibly for a lifetime. Assuming they both survived this case, of course.  He felt giddy as a school girl, but was experienced enough to know that it could all be ascribed to love, indigestion or a hangover. He wondered how Sherlock would take it. Might he even turn out to be a romantic? John dismissed that notion and considered himself content with being held and cuddled in bed. The candle lights and surprise holidays could go to other couples. He wouldn’t swap anyway.  
  
“Hmm, it might,” Sherlock was only half listening to John as he wolfed down his breakfast. He had finally found something that made him as hungry as a solved case.  
  
“Hey, slow down,” John admonished him as he started on his own breakfast. “Are we in a hurry?”  
  
“Well, actually,” Sherlock managed between two mouthfuls, “a bit, as it happens.”  
  
“Oh, what are we doing today?” John wondered as he stuffed his mouth with a forkful of beans.  
  
“Visiting a school where Rain worked, investigating his background and possibly finding relations, so eat up,” Sherlock said, polishing off his plate and contentedly sipping his tea.  
  
“None of us are leaving this flat without a shower first, Sherlock,” John insisted and grinned when he received a lecherous smile and eager nod in response. “Ok, I did mean one at a time, but if you prefer...?”  
He got out of bed and sauntered into the bathroom, Sherlock approximately two inches behind him. It was a long shower, and they nearly ran out of warm water before they reluctantly stopped clinging to each other and reached for towels, very carefully patting each other dry, mindful of sensitive areas.  
  
“Might need a shower again tonight,” Sherlock said as he was getting dressed.  
  
“Cleanliness is a virtue,” John agreed as he salvaged his jumper from the microscope, slipping it on.  
  
John kept a respectable distance to Sherlock in the cab, because he realised that if he got too close, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off him. This could prove to be a whole new set of problems when it came to working with Sherlock Holmes. And here he thought he’d gotten used to or over the worst of them. His life never ceased to amaze him.  
   
Their first stop that day was a school in Croydon who’d seen better days. Sherlock went straight to administration and flashed a badge, demanding to see whoever was in charge of personnel. A secretary guided them down a smelly corridor to the offices of a middle aged, very greying woman who was not pleased to be interrupted in her computer work.  
  
“My open office hours are from nine to ten, and I don’t do interviews on Wednesdays. Please make an appointment wi….”  
  
Sherlock interrupted her, only it wasn’t Sherlock anymore. The gorgeous tall man with the extravagant hair was completely gone, and he was now visibly ten inches shorter, shoulders hunched, hair flat, eyes droopy, his whole countenance just slightly askew, the coat didn’t really fit his frame any longer - he was completely transformed into a bossy, stressed, downtown cop with little time to spare, complete with a tired half smile, a small limp of his hip and an apologetic shrug of his shoulder, as if to lament the fact he was forced to talk to her. “I am Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” he informed her in a raspy voice putting John in mind of a 1940’s war movie hero, holding his badge out, “and this is my associate du jour, Dr Watson.”  
  
John gaped, Sherlock hadn’t warned him that he was changing guise, and he was very tempted to kick him for using John’s real name when he was fibbing about himself. But then he remembered Sherlock’s penchant for using the truth, or a shell of it, whenever possible. _Only lies have details_ , John remembered.  
  
“Oh?” She looked up, quite wary - not her first encounter with the police, John instantly observed. Her guard was up, but Sherlock was ready for it.  
  
“I need access to personnel files, we are looking for a…“ Sherlock appeared flustered, digging in his pocket for a notepad that John recognised as his old calendar, taking his time in getting it out, flipping through page after page before apparently settling on one, “a… a mathematics teacher who worked here a few years back, lost his faculties and, what do you say, went around the bend? Found bats in the belfry… you get the idea. Went by the name, or nickname, of Rain.” Sherlock paused to scratch rigorously at his hair, barely glancing at her.  
  
“What’s he done?” she countered, not even looking up at Sherlock, glancing at papers on her desk.  
  
“’Fraid I can’t tell you that. Police business. So, file?” he held out a hand as if she could magically make it appear instantly out of thin air.  
  
“’Fraid I can’t give you that. Privileged information,” she countered.  
  
“Not when Scotland Yard is asking,” Sherlock maintained.  
  
“They can ask all they want,” she huffed unfazed, “unless they have a really good cause, the file of a man who may or may not have worked here is none of your business. Even school teachers have earned basic citizen rights of privacy,” she almost spat. John was beginning to like her.  
  
Sherlock had been waiting for her defiance, and fired his chief argument at her. “He may have been murdered, and we need a next of kin to identify the… remains.” He glared at her without remorse, and now John felt sorry for her as her face fell.  
  
“Raymond… dead?” she asked, momentarily stunned.  
  
“Aha!” Sherlock in the form of Lestrade swooped down on her instant and obvious grief, milking it, knowing he had won. John felt really sorry for her now, and discreetly poked Sherlock in the ribs, getting his attention.  
  
“What, Dr Watson?” he growled.  
  
“Maybe take a moment to let the lady here come to terms with the… erm, unexpected demise of her former colleague, hmmh?”  
  
“No time for that,” he brushed John off. “There may be a murderer on the loose, and the sooner we identify the victim the sooner we can hone in on him.”  
  
“But if it’s Raymond, I can identify him,” she offered.  
  
“That would be lovely, miss…?” Sherlock smiled at her.  
  
“Ashton, Ms Ashton,” she clarified.  
  
“As long as you are related to him, that is,” Sherlock smirked, and her face fell.  
  
“No, I am not,” she admitted.  
  
“No good then. It has to be someone related. Let me see the file then, there must be some contact details.”  
  
“I suppose, if he’s dead.” She shrugged and went to a back room. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
“Sherlock! That wasn’t nice,” John hissed as she left.  
  
“If you know of a better way to make people talk than that, please be my guest,” he hissed back, and then totally bowled John over by leaning forwards, the long fingers of his right hand folding and merging with John’s neck, pulling him close, claiming his lips in a passionate kiss. It only lasted twelve seconds, John counted his heartbeats, but it left him breathless and panting when Sherlock pulled away.  
  
John only had a moment to rearrange his face into proper features before Ms Ashton returned with a file, placing it on her desk before reseating herself. She pointedly did not hand Sherlock the file. She took a sip from her teacup before opening it, clearly in better command of herself now that she’d had a moment to get herself together.  
  
“Hmm, there is a Mrs Gardiner listed as next of kin, but no phone number. Just an address in Huntingdon.” She scribbled it on a piece of paper and handed it to Sherlock. “Will you please inform me, in case it’s him?” she asked.  
  
“I’ll have someone at the Yard call you,” Sherlock said, and John made a mental note to do just that, since he was pretty sure Sherlock had no intention of living up to that promise. Particularly since he knew bloody well that Rain was fine, well maybe not fine, but breathing.

Sherlock was already buried in travel plans on his phone as they exited the school. “We need the Great Northern line to get there, hurry up, John, we can connect if we take the Thameslink from here”, he said as he tried to hail a cab for the station.  
  
“When did you swipe Greg’s ID?” John wondered while they waited.  
  
“Yesterday, while he was comforting me on the sofa,” Sherlock explained. “He really shouldn’t be so careless.”  
  
“Sherlock!” John admonished, but couldn’t help a small giggle. “We’re not really going to Huntingdon though, are we?” John was tired just thinking of it. “Can’t we just try to find a phone number?”  
  
“I need a signature, allowing the doctors in Hertford to run the tests on Rain. Can’t get that over the phone. Besides, I already looked, there’s no listed number for that name. So let’s go, it’s only a couple of hours away.”  
  
John sighed and resigned himself to a long tedious train ride, but instead of a cab a sleek black car suddenly pulled up on the sidewalk next to them, slamming the brakes. John panicked and pushed Sherlock to the ground, throwing himself on top of him. The passenger got out and held out a hand, and John desperately tried to get a hold of his gun, but he had landed on it. He turned to shout something unpleasant at the assailant, but halted when he saw the hand was empty, held out to offer him a lift up.  
  
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock smiled from beneath him. “I have also always found Mycroft’s guards to be terrifying. Glad to have some protection from them.”  
  
“Oh, shit!” John huffed. “Didn’t recognise you, sorry.” He looked sheepishly up at the guard. “You guys could have honked or something. A little warning next time?”  
  
“Certainly, sir. We shall keep that in mind.” He helped John up, then turned to help Sherlock. As Sherlock brushed himself off, the guard explained their presence. “Your travel plan search was flagged. We are not allowed to let you take public transportation, so we shall drive you to… Huntingdon, was it?”  
  
“Mycroft is tapping my phone?” Sherlock looked like a mix of livid and relieved.  
  
“Of course, sir,” the guard deadpanned, opening the car door for them, gesturing for them to get in.  
  
“What the hell,” Sherlock shrugged and climbed into the back seat pulling John with him, “if it means they’re driving us to Huntingdon and home, I can live with it.”  
  
Sherlock snogged John senseless for the entire 1 hour 43 and a half minutes' drive, quite a long trip even though the driver was speeding like a little devil to get it over with. John had never needed a cup of tea more severely in his life as he staggered out of the car in front of a big, ugly grey-yellow building that had probably been an architect’s dream in 1935. He was also so hard that he was looking around for an ugly fountain to dip himself in. That, however, had not been part of the architect’s dream, so none was to be found. He sighed heavily, closed his eyes and thought of the five most common causes for inflammation of the epidermis. Helped a bit. At least Sherlock didn’t seem unaffected either; he’d kept his coat closed around him even though it was shaping up to be quite a warm day.  
  
“Come on, John,” Sherlock said impatiently, already on the staircase on his way into the building.  
  
“What is this place?” John asked.  
  
“A retirement home, I expect. Private, expensive,” Sherlock surmised as he held the door open for John.  
  
There was no reception, but Sherlock quickly found an administrative looking office, knocking on the door, slouching - his ‘Lestrade’ was back, John noticed.  
  
“Hey,” Sherlock said to a young secretary, quickly flashing his badge. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, the Yard, need to talk to one of your inmates,” he explained with a broad London accent. If John closed his eyes he could picture Greg in front of him.  
  
“Our residents,” she emphasized the word, “are having lunch at the moment. Could you inform me what this is about?”  
  
“We’re seeking relatives of a Raymond Gardiner, and have been let to understand that a Mrs Gardiner resides here.” Sherlock mocked her back by saying ‘resiiiiides’ with a mock posh accent.  
  
“We do not have a Mrs Gardiner,” she said and Sherlock’s face fell.  
  
“Damnation! Dead end?” He turned to John who could only shrug.  
  
“Check your files, would you dearie? Gotta make sure she hasn’t moved on one way or the other,” Sherlock turned on the Lestrade smile. John stared, _how did he make his front teeth look bigger_?  
  
“I’ll check,” she said and turned to the computer. After a short search she turned to Sherlock. “Hmm, it’s a bit odd, we did have a Mrs Gardiner but she’s not here now, and there’s no record of her demise, or a forwarding address, which there should have been if she’d moved out. I’m going to have to check with the director. Please have a seat till I return.“ She gestured at a couple of chairs in the hall.  
  
They settled down for the wait, Sherlock discreetly caressing John’s hand. He leant over and whispered to him, “Would you like to do the leg over thing again tonight? I think I am sufficiently reconstituted. And though you are exceedingly good with your hands, and I liked all of that, you being inside me is the most exciting thing that has happened to me since the case of …” He paused a moment to contemplate, and then amended, “that has ever happened to me.”  
  
John closed his eyes to control his blushing, and then managed a simultaneous smile and sigh, opening them again, looking at Sherlock. “I should like nothing more, if you’re up to it.”  
  
“I shall be," Sherlock promised him, getting out of his chair as he saw the assistant approaching them again. She bid them follow her into the office again.  
  
“It would seem,” she said, “that we still have Mrs Gardiner here, only under another name. I can arrange for you to see her directly after lunch, shouldn’t take much longer.”  
  
“That would be lovely,” Sherlock said.  
  
“What’s her name now?” John asked.  
  
“Mrs Dupin, “ she answered, “now listen, if you just go down that hall, to your left and through the double doors you’ll come to the common room, just ask one of the nurses to point her out to you when they return from lunch.”  
  
That was clearly a dismissal and they followed her directions, finding themselves in a big sunny room with lots of soft chairs, big windows, fluffy curtains and little bowls of marmalade candy. Sherlock happily swiped one and sank into one of the big chairs, perusing a paper that was lying there. Shortly after they heard the scraping of many chairs, and a murmur of voices came closer. As John spotted the crowd approaching he sought out a nurse and asked her for the whereabouts of Mrs Dupin. She pointed to a lean, tall woman in a light blue dress, wobbling a bit as she leant on an ivory cane, slowly making her way into the room.  
  
John approached her and introduced himself. “Mrs Dupin, my name is John Watson, and this is my associate Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John as he neglected to use his cover of the day, but shrugged and got up to shake her hand. “May we have a word?” John finished.  
  
“Are you not that famous detective guy from London?” She squinted up at Sherlock while gesturing towards a winter garden that was unoccupied. “Shall we take tea out there?”  
  
“Tea, yes. Thank God, I could use a cup,” John exhaled and smiled broadly at her.  
  
“Tea for three, please Millicent,” Mrs Dupin asked one of the nurses before selecting a soft chair, settling herself gingerly into it.  
  
Sherlock didn’t waste time. “Mrs Dupin, are you the mother of Raymond Gardiner, formerly of Croydon, now a street resident in London?”  
  
“Raymond? How did you find him? He’s been lost for years, I had feared the worst.” She looked eagerly at Sherlock.  
  
“He has been aiding me in an investigation,” Sherlock said and she looked inordinately proud.  
  
“But why hasn’t he been in touch with me?” she asked in a sad voice.  
  
John leant forward and patted her hand, “Well, you see, Rain is not quite himself. He has been living on the streets, and, well, I guess there is no easy way to say it, but he appears to have lost his mind. He may not have been able to get in touch with you. Particularly since you have changed your name, why is that?”  
  
“Oh that thing,” she huffed and dismissed the notion with the wave of a hand. “I had enough! My husband had always been a philanderer and when he continued even after we moved in here, I left him and took my maiden name back.”  
  
“You left your husband here…? How old were you?” John wondered.  
  
“I was 83 and he was 87. Such a flirt. When I found him in Mrs Riley’s bed that was the last straw!”  
  
“When he was 87?” John tried to hide a guffaw, which he couldn’t when he also heard Sherlock snicker.  
  
“Afraid so,” she smirked. “But my darling Raymond, tell me about him. What has happened to him?”  
  
Now it was Sherlock’s turn to take over and he leant forwards to get eye contact. “We don’t know. Quite frankly, that’s why we needed to find you. It was assumed that he had a mental breakdown as he worked at a school in Croydon, and then went on to live as a homeless individual, by necessity rather than choice. However, recent developments have landed him in a private clinic where the medical staff have theorized that he may indeed suffer from a chemical imbalance, making his problem neurological rather than psychological.“  
  
“I don’t understand,” she said in a small voice, “is my Raymond potty?”  
  
“We thought he was, but it may be that he is not. However, to determine that for sure, the doctors will need to perform some rather invasive tests, and it may even be necessary to operate.”  
  
“Oh dear,” she sighed, but perked up a little bit when an assistant brought a tray in. “Ah, shall we take tea? Shall I be mother?”  
  
“That’s what we’re hoping,” Sherlock mumbled, leaning back in his chair.  
  
“Yes, please,” John said glaring at Sherlock, grateful for the tea.  
  
She poured for them, not even faced when Sherlock asked for six lumps of sugar, stirring his cup before handing it to him. When all had their cups and the first sips of the warm, sweet liquid into them, Sherlock continued.  
  
“Since Raymond is not in possession of his faculties, he is not able to grant consent to these trials, so will you please sign a release form so the work can begin?”  
  
“Of course I want my baby to be cured, if at all possible, but I should talk to his father about it,” she nodded to herself as if confirming her own idea.

  
“He’s still around?” John exclaimed.  
  
“Yes, of course. He’s living in sin with Mrs Riley now, he’s probably on the croquet field though, flirting with the nurses.”  
  
“I’ll go get him,” Sherlock volunteered, getting up just in time to hide his smile.  
  
He returned in ten minutes with an elderly but frisky gentleman, and sat him down in a chair.  
  
“The young fellow here has explained the situation with Raymond to me. Of course we are signing, you silly woman, just get your pen out and get it done.”  
  
“Fine,“ she said, “give me the paper.”  
  
Sherlock quickly produced the document from his pocket, along with a pen and got their signatures.  
  
He thanked them both and gestured to John to get up. “We shall go straight to the clinic with this, so the work may begin. We’ll give them your contact info so they can keep you updated. Now come on John, I think these parents need to talk.”  
  
As they walked out of the building John took Sherlock’s hand and whispered to him, “Don’t you dare leave me when I’m 87.”  
  
“Promise,” Sherlock smiled.  
  
Once back in Baker Street, after dropping the papers off in Hertford, Sherlock went straight to his computer, researching some theory or another while John made dinner from the ample supplies Mycroft had stocked their fridge with.  
  
“I think I know which way to go with Rain’s treatment,” Sherlock informed John over dinner. “I am going to try with a butyrophenone derivative. If I can refine it and adapt it to Rain’s illness it may reverse the problem. If I vary the levels of Dekanoat salt, it should be able to reduce his dopamine over-production. I need to test it though. Go get me some rats, John. Or ask some of your patients.”

“Get your own rats, Sherlock,” John grinned and put dinner on the table. “Tomorrow, because the rest of this evening you are mine. Eat up, you’re going to need your strength.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter actually had outtakes as I found a couple of hilarious misspellings – I’ll share them with you:
> 
>  
> 
> “I am Inspective Director… Lestrade… err, sorry”
> 
>  
> 
> “Ashton, miss Ashton,” she clafiried.
> 
>  
> 
> Should you find any other spelling mistakes please let me know. I do have an awesome beta reader, but I know that something always slip under the radar.


	12. So, that’s why the handcuffs…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has promised Sherlock hot sex, but it heats up more than he had initially planned. Good job that Sherlock swiped more than just the ID card from Lestrade. Also, some case development, but who cares, because sex.

 

 

John could have kicked himself. He was a doctor, how the hell could he have made a mistake like that, so completely losing himself and forgetting all basic knowledge. True, he was new to this kind of thing, but that didn’t mean common sense shouldn’t prevail. And Sherlock, the big oaf, had of course just adapted, stayed silent and suffered without warning him. The evening had started perfectly with a cosy dinner, after which Sherlock had actually agreed to John’s suggestion that they should go to bed, abandoning his research in favour of lying on his bed where John had promised to kiss him all over. After a day of roller coaster hard ons and offs John was more than just looking forward to getting aroused without having to resort to mind and body control to calm down again. He didn’t want to calm down, he wanted to climb Mt. Sherlock and plant his flag, and right after dinner he proceeded to set up base camp by dropping the dishes in the sink and hauling Sherlock into the bedroom, quickly and efficiently stripping him before shedding his own clothes, joining him on the bed.  
  
“I thought we were having another bath this evening,” Sherlock grinned at him.  
  
“Give it time, we may need it later,” John re-joined and started on his dessert - Sherlock. He worked methodically, kissing his way up the legs, the inside of the knees, the top of the thighs and the insides, which earned him a mix of giggles and heavy breathing. He avoided Sherlock’s scrotum and concentrated on his belly button before licking his way up to a nipple, closing his lips firmly on the left one. Sherlock was arching up into his touch, his temperature rising, John could feel it through his chest.  
  
“If this is some kind of alternative bathing technique known only to the medical profession, I’m all for it,” Sherlock exhaled on a moan.  
  
John’s lips relinquished the nipple, to allow him to talk, but his tongue punctuated every word with a sharp lick to it. “You are way too coherent in your response, so it’s obviously not good enough, I shall have to work harder.”  
  
“Yes, yes, please do,” Sherlock urged him on with a satisfying quaver to his voice, his hands tangling in John’s hair, tugging to get more.  
  
“Mmmm, mmm,” John promised and shifted to the right nipple as he started moving his body against Sherlock’s, just barely touching skin on skin, just enough to catch his erection a little with every pass, rubbing closer and closer with every pass. It had the desired effect on Sherlock.  
  
“You mean that… oooh, that… the loss of … conre… convin… conversationalllll skills, oh yes!, is desi…des… de… desirable… in this… situ tu tu tuation?” Sherlock moaned as John used every trick in the book he knew on how to arouse your partner using your body and tongue.

“Yes,” John paused briefly “I want you moaning, breathless and screaming my name to scare the guards outside.” John smiled against Sherlock’s skin and moved up a little to capture his lips in a passionate kiss, letting his tongue insistently push past Sherlock’s lips and claim his mouth. He felt both Sherlock’s arms and legs close around him as he was pulled tighter and felt he was losing control of the moment. He pulled his lips away, while he tugged at Sherlock’s hair, holding him down. “No, you don’t, not this time. My dessert! My pace!” he teased and held on tightly to the hair as he dipped down to kiss and lick at the long neck, pulling further back on the hair to give himself more access, lapping up the deep groans that Sherlock emanated. “Now you sound like I want you to,” he praised, even though he was technically still a prisoner in the cage made up by Sherlock’s limbs.  
  
“Johnjohn, want you,” Sherlock panted, grinding against him, his heels pushing at John’s arse, making it quite plain what exactly he wanted.  
  
“Uh uh,” John admonished, placing butterfly kisses on the neck and chin. “We are so not there yet, you need to be prepared.”  
  
“No, no, want you nownow,” Sherlock insisted with his usual impatience, pulling at John’s back, most unwilling to listen to him, lost in his desires. Scrabbling for purchase his nails scraped down John’s back, and he winced with the pain.  
  
“Stop that, Sherlock. Ease off!” John admonished. “I need lube, I need to finger you open, I need … OUCH! Sherlock, for fucks’ sake! Nails!” John scrambled to get down the bed a bit, away from the painful claws, pushing Sherlock’s arms away. His eyes glanced at the table where there had been such an ample supply of lube last night, but Mrs Hudson had moved that away. _Hadn’t Mycroft mentioned that he’d stashed lube in all the drawers?_ John held Sherlock at bay with his left hand while his right hand fumbled slightly desperately, opening the nightstand drawer on the right hand side of the bed, and came back out with a handful of… three pairs of… handcuffs!?  
  
“Sherlock? Handcuffs?” John swung the collection in front of Sherlock’s face, trying to catch his attention. “Where did you amass this?”  
  
“Greg… Anderson, inattentive… careless, had to! Immaterial to our sex… drop it… get lube.” Sherlock tried to commandeer, his hips grinding ever upwards, seeking purchase against John.  
  
“Oh, _so_ not immaterial, in that case,” John grinned and slapped one cuff on Sherlock’s right wrist, quickly wrangling the left one around to mate it to its partner. Sherlock glared at him, then at his cuffed hands, then at John again. He howled with the loss as John jumped out of bed to rummage in the wardrobe, coming back out in no time, triumphantly holding two silk belts from dressing gowns in his hands.  
  
“This’ll be a great help to me,” he smiled as he pounced back on the bed, tying both ends to the handcuffs. He pulled Sherlock’s hands up over his head, tugging the belt over the headboard and down the backside, scooting out of bed and down to the floor, tying it to the right leg of the bed, ignoring the litany of curses that followed his every move. He walked, well semi-ran, around to the other side and grabbed the second belt, pulling it over the back, kneeling to fasten it to the left leg. That should teach Sherlock not to shred the back skin of a member of the Northumberland Fusiliers!  
  
He stood to admire his work and nearly melted into a puddle as he looked down at Sherlock, pulling, dragging and rendering intended chaos onto the restraints, which of course held firm. They would hold till the cows came home. John knew how to tie down a POW, since unfortunately even medical staff had been requested to acquire that knowledge.  
  
“Now patience shall be your companion, whether you want it or not,” he smiled as he climbed back onto the bed, dipping to kiss Sherlock’s chest, chasing the trail of short hair down to his scrotum, taking his time to lick down the right loin, down the thigh, nudging the legs apart, licking back up and letting his mouth close around a soft, musky testicle, playfully rolling his tongue around it while lightly sucking. The bed creaked. John let go of his prize with a pop, looking up at a picture of arousal and erotic art. “I should paint you like this. Better still, I should get Michelangelo to do it. Too bad he’s not around anymore.” Sherlock didn’t answer. Just panted, licking his lips while looking down at John with a smouldering look that could have melted the cold war had it still been on.  
  
“Ok,” John said, sitting up on his heels, “I have better get serious with you before you have an aneurysm.” He picked up one of the lube bottles from the floor and coated his fingers. He started slow, just one finger, but not as slow as the night before. He actually pushed it straight in, seeking out the prostate and massaging it a bit, enjoying the high pitched whale song this elicited from Sherlock’s throat. He leant down and kissed Sherlock passionately as he kept the massage light but insistent, enjoying the way it made Sherlock’s tongue jump in time with his pushes. He added a second finger, and now he had to get a firm grip in Sherlock’s hair to keep the kiss steady, their lips crushed against each other, their moans getting increasingly synchronised in their fervour. By the time John added the third finger he had to give up kissing, and sat up to hold a thrashing hip down, to allow his fingers the control he needed.  
  
“John, oh God, John! Can’t wait. Please be inside me,” Sherlock panted, and John was surprised that he’d managed that many coherent words, given that he looked like a puzzle that had been assembled too hasty with a lot of pieces missing. This was also a pretty good simile for John’s brain at the moment. He had one, and only one coherent thought: ‘Must have Sherlock’, and he acted on that, lying down between his legs and pushing in, all the way in, not stopping till he felt his balls slapping against firm skin. His lips firmly latched onto the skin of Sherlock’s neck, hard enough to bruise, and Sherlock howled. Simply howled as a creature of unknown origin. John removed his lips to look up at him, but he saw only the jaw. Sherlock’s head was tilted far back onto the pillow, his mouth wide open, emanating sounds that John had never heard before. Not that he was able to analyse sounds unknown vs. sounds known at the moment.  
  
“You… you… gorgeous,” was all that John managed as he pumped into the writhing body. He managed to wriggle his arms under Sherlock and held them close together as he rode him recklessly, taking, taking, taking what he wanted, what he craved more than oxygen. Though his arms were immobilised, exiled from the combat zone, that didn’t stop Sherlock from participating eagerly; his legs were deadlocked around John’s back, urging him on, even as his abdomen lunged upwards, grinding himself against John, gyrating his hips as much as the enclosed space would allow him. It seemed to John that Sherlock’s moans were getting increasingly desperate, the push of his heels against John’s back more insistent so he complied by losing himself completely to the passion, pumping into Sherlock, holding onto him, burying his arms under his shoulders and latching on as a closing bank vault door. He embedded his mouth in the crook of the neck under him, kissing, sucking, moaning, exhaling, praising, soothing, holding on as he felt the body beneath him suddenly shudder violently, Sherlock moaning John’s name while a sticky, warm feeling spread between their bodies as Sherlock clenched impossibly tight around him. John came instantly. Commanded, demanded, decreed and spurred on by Sherlock’s orgasm he obeyed and succumbed to the man who may have been handcuffed beneath him, but still managed to be in charge of John’s actions and emotions.  
  
“You came,” John panted after a long while, collapsed on top of Sherlock. “You came, just from that… I didn’t even… Just fucking you… just… Jesus, Sherlock. Don’t move, or I could get hard again just thinking about this.”  
  
“You didn’t fuck me”, Sherlock whispered, in between deep breaths, fighting to get his breathing under control, “you made love to me.”  
  
 “I… fucking…love you!” John shouted, breathless. Well, he tried to shout it, but since his vocal chords were shot to hell only Sherlock and a few bed bugs heard it. The bed bugs didn’t care, they had their own problems; their part of the bed was flooded.  
  
Once he regained control of his breathing John pulled out of Sherlock and reached up to open the handcuffs. “Keys?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded towards the side table. “In the drawer? Ok.” John got out of bed to retrieve them and that’s when he saw it. Just a little bit, but it was unmistakable, there was blood on his penis. He turned around on a dime, and spread Sherlock’s knees gently, seeing droplets of blood on the sheet under him.  
  
“Sherlock, you’ve been bleeding a bit, did I hurt you this time?” he asked, his voice thick with worry.  
  
“Well, it did feel a bit rougher than yesterday, particularly when you entered me, but it got better quite quickly, and as you know, got quite satisfactory towards the end.”  Sherlock’s eyes were closed as he basked in the afterglow.  
  
“Jesus! I didn’t lube myself up. I forgot… I, Jesus, Sherlock! You should have told me. There must have been pain, it’s not supposed to hurt,” John said, sounding devastated.  
  
“There was some pain, but also pleasure, it was very, very demanding. I’ve never ever tried anything like it. My mind was completely occupied with feeling things.” Sherlock smiled up at John, without opening his eyes.  
  
“But you were, Jesus, you were restrained too. You couldn’t even push me away if you…”  
  
“It was fine, John, you’re not listening to me. It Was Fine. I may be a bit sore for a couple of days and choose to stand where I could have been seated, but I liked it. There is a fine line between pain and pleasure, and I crossed it effortlessly several times tonight,” Sherlock maintained and finally opened his eyes to look at John, smiling up at him. “My arms are however getting a little tired of this position, so if you would get the key…”  
  
“Yes, sure, sure,” John turned swiftly, flustered, embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of Sherlock’s comfort, even while apologising for hurting him. He scrambled around the drawer for a set of keys and found seven. The third one he tried fit, and Sherlock gratefully and gingerly lowered his arms, rotating his shoulders a bit.  
  
“That shower would be nice now,” he suggested looking down at the mess on his stomach and chest.  
  
“What? Yes, I’ll help you,” John offered.  
  
“John, we had a little rough sex, I haven’t been invalided. Unless you are up to playing in the shower, I can hold myself upright for the duration.” He swung his legs out of bed, wincing as he stood, holding up a hand to withstand the litany of apologies from John before they got started. “You are most welcome to join me, though,” he offered, turning to John, who was, however, staring at his wrists.

“Oh God, I’ve hurt you there too, they are red and swollen, let me see,” John was at his side in a flash, gently lifting a hand to let his fingers run the circumference of the wrist, checking for broken skin, finding none. “I’ll put some pain reducing gel on that after the bath,” he assured him. “Would you like me to also app…”  
  
“No! Thank you,” Sherlock cut him off, looking embarrassed. “That would be a tad too, too… intimate. And I am fine, John. Will you accept that? I very much enjoyed… I was enthused… I… the handcuffs enhanced my experience. Focused my mental faculties, allowing me to experience the pleasure on a more intensive plane. Didn’t mind it at all.”  
  
“Sure, ok. Fine. Let’s shower and let me gel your wrists up after. I am not using those metal cuffs again, though.”  
  
“They’re meant to immobilise a criminal reluctant to be detained, not as a tool for two guys who are learning what it means to be respectively sexual, bisexual and homosexual. We are bound to have a fluctuating learning curve.” Sherlock followed John into the bathroom, crowding him in the shower, finally finding a way to shut him up. 

\---- * ----

In the morning John woke encaged in Sherlock’s arms again, but at least there wasn’t an elderly lady storming through the doors waking him. His first waking thought was, however, how he had inadvertently hurt Sherlock in his maiden attempts at sex with a man, and he resolved to use the day to make it up to him. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind anything though, snoring emphatically in John's ear. John gently extricated himself from Sherlock’s embrace and snuck out of bed. They had showered for a long time before retiring to bed, so he didn’t feel like another one, instead he popped into the still clinically clean kitchen, suppressing a small ‘whipppeeeee’ at seeing it in that state. Well, he did do a ‘yes’-motion, pumping his fist in the air, before putting the kettle on, and preparing a fry up for Sherlock. He was going to make last night up to him in a number of ways.  
  
He called Sherlock out to breakfast when it was ready, smiling as he saw the yawning, scratching, stretching figure emerge, clad only in a crimson, gorgeous dressing gown, without a belt. He blushed a bit when he remembered where the belt was currently. And then he remembered something else and hurried to get a cushion for Sherlock to sit on, offering him a sheepish smile as he placed it on the kitchen chair. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and sipped his tea.  
  
“Plans today?” John asked as he heaped scrambled eggs on his toast, peppering it before taking a big bite.

“Going over to Mycroft’s. Meeting Nicole, the widow. Have a few questions for her,” Sherlock responded as he daintily inserted a small fried tomato into his mouth, humming as the warm seeds exploded against his palate when he bit down on it. John was reminded of something someone once said about a grape, or something he did with a grape, or something else to do with mouths and edibles. He drank a lot of tea, really fast. Too fast. A bit hot, so he chased it with some cold juice, mending the damage.  
  
“No, Sherlock, no! You are going to see the widow of your brother’s best friend and offer your _sincere_ condolences, and then ask her if she is up to answering questions,” John corrected him.  
  
“I am?”  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
“Obfuscator!”  
  
“Love you too. Finish your breakfast, and don’t come home too late. And bring the bodyguards,” John insisted.  
  
“Tweedle dee and Tweedle dum? Not both of them, you get to keep one,” Sherlock informed him.  
  
“Uh, I do? Must be my birthday,” John snarked as he sipped his tea and finished his beans. “Sherlock, no one is trying to kill me. You, on the other hand, are the flavour of the month.”  
  
“Not negotiable, John. You get Dee then, I’ll take Dum. He’s the best driver anyway. I’m also going out to the clinic. I have a few theories about the receptor agonist we could try on Rain that I must talk to them about. I could be gone for the day. If you are concerned with boredom you could aid the research taking time to look into antipsychotics that could have pharmacological effects matching phenothiazines. Well, you are a doctor. You have some basic understanding of pharmacological chemistry, don’t you?“  
  
“A doctor, not a chemist,” John corrected him. “I have very basic knowledge of pharmacology, and certainly not on a research level.”  
  
“It’s never too late to learn,” Sherlock countered and finished his tea. He winced again as he stood and John winced seeing it. Unsurprisingly Sherlock didn’t offer to do the dishes so John got up to do them, wanting to keep the kitchen neat for as long as possible. As he worked, he got an idea that could suit several purposes, and he smiled to himself as his mind formed a plan for how to do something that should make Sherlock happy. Right after he’d called Ms Ashton to assure her that Rain wasn’t dead, since Sherlock of course had forgotten to do that.

  
\--- * ---

  
Nicole Pike was an elegant woman, and she bore her grief well, Sherlock thought. Mycroft had stayed at home and sat in his chair as a silent moral support for Nicole, and a palpable warning to Sherlock to behave. He remembered John’s advice and offered his condolences, giving her an awkward hug,  
  
“It’s all right, Sherlock. You were never a tactile man,” she smiled and patted his back as they parted. “But I appreciate the effort.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Sherlock mumbled, seating himself on the edge of a high-backed chair by the window. “And let me assure you, I will find his killer.”

“I know you will,” she allowed. “If anyone can, it’s you. And Mycroft,” she smiled at her host and he nodded graciously at her.  
  
“But I would like to ask you some questions that could be considered indelicate, by some,” Sherlock said. Mycroft looked proudly at Sherlock, surprised at his unusual restraint.  
  
Nicole nodded and gestured for him to proceed.  
  
“Langdale’s affairs. Did he always….?”  
  
“Oh, yes. Always,” she smiled a small wry smile. “I never took it personally. He loved me, he always put me first, but he was old school. He considered it the right of a gentleman to have a mistress. More than a right even; a tradition that he had to live up to.”  
  
“So he had a yearning for life in the eighteenth century?” Sherlock wondered.  
   
“Not quite that bad,” she corrected him. “But yes, he always. Even when we were newlyweds. Of course when I had a short office fling he challenged the poor man to a duel.” She smiled at the memory.  
  
“Did it ever happen?” Sherlock asked, suddenly very interested.  
  
“Certainly not. I put at stop to that as soon as I heard,” she huffed. Sherlock looked disappointed.  
  
“Did he ever fall in love with any of his mistresses?” he tried.  
  
“Every one of them. He never did anything by half, and he didn’t take them lightly. But he never loved them over me.”  
  
“So he never promised them marriage?”  
  
“I doubt it. But obviously I wasn’t present when he met them. Who knows what he said to keep them happy.”  
  
“And you were never jealous?” Sherlock wondered.

“Insanely so,” she admitted. “But I travel a lot, have long overseas postings, and it kept him happy. And it kept him mine. That is till…” she paused, and looked sad for just a moment, but then she took a deep breath and regained control of her emotions. It was obvious to Sherlock that she was a formidable diplomat. The very ally you wanted on your side of a negotiating table.

The only thing that seemed to rattle her was when he told her that Gladys was pregnant. That made her burst into tears and excuse herself, retiring to her room.  
  
“I’m afraid you will have to take charge of the dog a while longer, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him. “Nicole is returning right after the service, and she can’t take Gladys with her. Dogs not allowed, I fear.”  
  
“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said absentmindedly. “John likes walking it. Keeps him company when I’m working.”  
  
“And how is he doing?” Mycroft asked, a small smirk to his lips.

“He’s doing fine. Why?”  
  
“Because you obviously got a good seeing to last night. You can barely sit.” Mycroft was unable to suppress a minute giggle.  
  
“Absolutely none of your business, bother mine,” Sherlock returned and worked very hard on not wincing as he stood to leave. He absolutely ignored the outright laughter that followed him to the door.

He sulked his way through the drive to Hertford. Dum didn’t say a word, which suited Sherlock perfectly. Upon arrival he visited shortly with Rain. He seemed fine, but unchanged and uncommunicative. Not helpful at all. He sought out the head physician, and they had a long talk about their respective theories. They had already done extensive blood work on Rain, and Sherlock was gifted with a few specimens to take home for his own testing. He was quite mollified as he left with a little cooling bag. He was increasingly convinced that Rain held the key to a significant piece of the puzzle, if only he could remember and articulate what he’d seen. He couldn’t wait to get home and get started on his experiments.  
  
But when he got home his face fell. His only bastion of sanity in the flat was gone. He had always found himself to be a forgiving, understanding man, but there were limits. And this one had definitely been crossed. He stood in the kitchen, shouting at the top of his lungs. “JOHN! Where is my microscope? What have you incompetent, bungling, ineffective, dim-witted morons done with it?

  
There was a thud upstairs and heavy footsteps on the staircase a moment later and then John appeared in the door, happy but flustered.  
  
“Already? I thought I had hours… but yeah, good to have you home.” He walked over to Sherlock and gave him a peck on the cheek.  
  
Sherlock was not mollified. “Where?” he gestured wildly at the empty kitchen table, which was now just a pointless kitchen table. “I have some very important tests to run, the case may depend on them, and someone has removed my microscope. This is my lab, John, not just a room for persistently making tea.”  
  
“I’ll show you, calm down”, John smiled and took his hand, tugging him upstairs.  
  
Sherlock scowled and followed him, though he couldn’t see the point in going up to John’s room.  
  
“Taaa daaa,” John announced with the air of someone who’d achieved something important, instead of the microscope-hogger that Sherlock fumingly thought of him as right now. He opened the door to his room and Sherlock gaped.  
  
“Where’s your bed gone?” he asked John peeking in.  
  
“It’s in the basement,” John explained.  
  
“You can’t sleep down there,” Sherlock scowled  
  
“I’m not sleeping down there, I’m sleeping with you, Sherlock!” John reminded him with a heavy sigh.  
  
“Oh, yes. True. But what has that got to do with my microscope?”  
  
“Just go in there,” John said impatiently and pushed him in.  
  
Sherlock stumbled in and looked around. The first thing he saw was his microscope on a stainless steel top table against the far wall. Next to it was a fridge, with a code lock, Adjacent to the steel table there was a desk with a big stationary computer, flat screen and keyboard, and shelves stacked with equipment like slides, test tubes, clamps, gloves, wires, everything he needed.  
  
He turned, dumbstruck, towards John. “How did you manage…” his gesture encompassed the entire room and its contents.  
  
“I had help,” John explained.  
  
“The equipment?” Sherlock pointed.  
  
“Molly.”  
  
“The table and computer and that chair?” he pointed to each thing in turn.  
  
“Mycroft.”  
  
“The shelves?”  
  
“Dee. He’s very handy with a screwdriver.” John smiled.  
  
“The fridge?” He went over to it to examine it, but it was locked.  
  
“Borrowed from The Royal Free. They had a spare. The code is 1895,” John snickered. “You can change it. And it has an alarm if the temperature goes below whatever you set it to.”  
  
“Thanks. I shall change the code,” Sherlock assured him, beaming at the medical standard fridge.  
  
“But now you can be sure that your specimens are uncorrupted. I’ve moved your current specimens into it. You are good to go.” John smiled as Sherlock entered the code and opened the fridge, putting his little sample bag in it.  
  
“Thank you, John.” Sherlock’s eyes were tinged with delight as he looked around, and then locked eyes with John.  
  
“Well, I thought it was about time you had your own lab, and that we had a proper kitchen, because we are a sort of family now, with brother in laws and what not, and we’re going to be having people over, and I will cook, and you will learn how to make a proper cup of tea without bacteria, and …”  
  
“Whoa, easy John, I’m not exactly barefoot and pregnant,” Sherlock admonished.

John just grinned, and pecked him on the cheek. “Of course not. I’ll leave you to settle in and start on your experiments. I’ll bring you up a cup of tea, shall I?”  
  
“Six sugars, please,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, as he tried out his new chair, spinning around in it before turning to the pc to see which programmes it had. He smiled broadly when he saw the menu. His own lab, the mere thought made him sport a silly smile. He was glad no one could see him. That thought reminded him that Mycroft had had a hand in this, so he did a quick scan for cameras, nope there were none, so he went back to rejoicing and smiling about his lab. No one to share with, contend with,  throw his stuff out or ruin it with food substance, no more butter on the slides or milk cultures getting mixed up with his bacteria. Never again would he be subject to inane chatter about dishes, shopping lists, eyes and fingers where John and Hudders didn’t want them, nattering about the contents of the butter dish, the inappropriate use of the cheese slicer, all that frivolous noise that kept him from the work. And it was all state of the art. Every computer programme he needed, the new electronic microscope, an alarmed fridge, and a sterile table top. And John had made all this happen in a day, giving up his own room to Sherlock.   
  
This is where he would spend his days, and then have John in his bed at night. He had definitely traded up. And with a very skilled opponent trying to kill him to such a degree that he needed bodyguards, his life was certainly peaking at the moment. Like Christmas and his birthday all come at once. He wondered if he should send a thank you note to someone, but whom?    
  
He realised that he was actually being side-tracked by all these glorious changes to his life, and mentally pulled himself together, getting out Rain’s blood samples, getting started on his test. He also needed to finish his test of Langdale’s shirt, and now that he had a powerful computer at hand, he may finally identify the substance on it.  
  
He worked for three solid hours, didn’t even notice John bringing him several cups of tea, but he’d drunk them never the less. He sighed, that was the one fault with the upstairs lab. No toilet. He finished what he was doing, making some final notes and powered the microscope down for now before descending to do his business. It would be six or seven hours before he had the results the computer was now mulling over. 

On his way downstairs he sniffed the air, it was heady with scents of roasting meat and vegetables. As far as he remembered this was an ordinary drab Thursday, could John really be making a roast? He inhaled deeply as he passed the kitchen on the way to the bathroom and sighed when he finally relieved himself. When he emerged he found John in the bedroom, changing the sheets.  
  
“You certainly have turned out domestic,” he grinned. “A roast?”  
  
“I had to do something to celebrate the kitchen being irrevocably designated a kitchen. It’s very gratified, so am I. We’re both very happy.” John grinned and smoothed the freshly changed duvet down, before cramming the dirty sheets into the hamper.   
  
Sherlock nodded his approval and walked over to give John a quick hug and a kiss on the nose. “I like this,” he said and turned around to go into the kitchen, leaving John to gape at his back.  
  
“Wauw, thanks… you… you hugged me. And said something nice. Talk about domestic,” John smiled as he followed him out. “The dinner is ready in twenty minutes or so, will you open the wine?”  
  
“Oh, wine too?” Sherlock picked it up to examine the label and nodded with approval. “Mycroft?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Hmm, I should decant it then,” he said and pulled down a carafe.  
  
“Lovely,” John agreed as he opened the oven to give the roast a gentle prod. The smell made Sherlock salivate. “Hmm, another ten minutes or so, and then it has to rest. I may attempt a sauce in the meantime. And I have something for you to do too.”  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he slowly poured the wine into the carafe.  
  
“Don’t go ballistic now, but I got the violin back, and there was a poisonous substance smeared on the strings, so they changed them.”  
  
“ALL of them?” Sherlock wailed.  
  
“They had to, Sherlock, they were ruined anyway. They would have broken with the acidity of the poison.” John tried to look commiserating.

“Oh, shit,” Sherlock groaned. “It’s a nightmare to set a new string, let alone all of them at once. It’ll be caterwauling for a while,” he explained.  
  
“I don’t mind. Your caterwauling still sounds like Bach to me, I’m not that picky. I just like to hear you play,” John shrugged and earned himself another hug. “Now who’s going domestic?” he grinned at Sherlock’s back as he went to examine his violin, spotting it in his chair.  
  
A lovely dinner later, Sherlock serenaded John with every request he had. Sherlock winced at the sound, John applauded. “I shall write you a piece. Just for you. About how I feel about you. And only you shall ever hear it,” Sherlock promised him as he put the tortured violin down for the night, “but not till these strings have set. So bed?” He looked hopefully over at John.  
  
“Are you up to anything after last night?” John wondered.  
  
“Oh, yes. I am,” he winked at John.  
  
“You’re not sore?”  
  
“Very,” he confirmed. “Which is why I’m going on top tonight.”  
  
“Oh shit,” John swallowed. “Be gentle with me, Sherlock?”  
  
“Not really my area, John.” Sherlock grinned at him as he pulled him into their bedroom.  
  



	13. Green is not Greg’s colour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gentle Sherlock wins John over to a new experience, but Greg has a tough time, and needs help from his favourite detective and his blogger. Yeah right, that’s all he is, Greg snickered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re squeaked by rimming, surely you wouldn’t be reading my stories, but now you are fairly warned – this chapter was a bit delayed. Blame a hobbit, not me.

 

                                                                                                  

They were so stuck. John threw down the medical journal he had been going through. It was just another dead end. He had read thirty two articles and Sherlock had gone through nearly a whole box of slides testing the salt, but nothing caused any reaction in the blood samples of Rain’s that he had prepared.  
                       
John had a hunch that neuropeptides could hold the key, so he grabbed his laptop and found yet an article to peruse, methodically searching through it, comparing it to his notes.  
  
At least Sherlock could not be heard mumbling and grumbling, occasionally swearing as he was safely ensconced in his upstairs lab, as John inhabited his chair, filled with all the soft pillows Sherlock had been able to find. Propped up in places he’d never expected to be propped up. Sherlock had been incredibly attentive to him all day. When he wasn’t agonizing over his work upstairs that was. John smiled to himself at the memory of such pampering.

All that bravado, claiming how tough he was, and then he’d proceeded to make slow cook love to John for hours on end, being so gentle that John had nearly screamed with impatience at intervals. Actually he had. He’d screamed a lot, he recalled, not all of it because of impatience.  
  
Ok, so he had been nervous. To let a man penetrate him had always represented the outermost border of being gay to him, the point of no return. _Here be dragons_ was what he had thought of that part of the map, the part he’d never even looked at. He had sort of held on to the notion that as long as he didn’t do _that_ , he wasn’t really gay, not really, just Sherlock-trekking. On the surface of his mind he had planned on never doing it, but his body had verily not agreed. How long had it taken Sherlock to reduce John to a shivering puddle after he was done stroking his body all over with his hands? Had it been as much as thirty seconds? He doubted it. His body shivered involuntarily at the memory, and his synapses stopped registering the neuropeptides article and focused on the party going on in his groin instead, since it was so much more fun.  
  
John remembered he had been visibly shivering with trepidation when Sherlock had dragged him to bed. He had still felt so bad about hurting his lover the night before, though, that he felt obliged to do whatever Sherlock wanted, but he was certainly not looking forward to it…   
  
He had a sudden insight into the credo of ‘close your eyes and think of England’, and his heart was filled with sympathy for generation after generation of women married off to men who thought foreplay was the cricket match they had attended in the afternoon. So John had gritted his teeth and girded his loins, but he hadn’t really thought of England for long before he had been moaning and begging for more. Sherlock had undressed him and placed him on the bed, naked and nervous, and then kissed him within an inch of his life, leaving John breathless and panting, hard as concrete, but still as jittery as a deer. Sherlock had then caressed every part of his naked skin before turning him over on his belly, nibbling at his neck and kissing his way down John’s spine, the kisses light and loving.  
  
John had moaned with delight, till he felt Sherlock forcibly shove a pillow under his scrotum, disturbing his hard on quite rudely, he thought. Never the less he had obliged by lifting his hips, allowing the access. Most of his senses were set to red alert; Sherlock’s experience with sex was limited to what he and John had tried together, and what Mycroft had obviously instructed him in, so what the heck was he up to? He felt Sherlock push his legs apart, and spread them accordingly, wincing into the pillow under his head, hoping he could keep from crying out in pain or panic.  
  
Ostrich eyes could be called petite compared to the orbs John sported a few seconds later when Sherlock’s tongue hit _that_ spot. A warm, moist, soft touch was the last thing he had been expecting, and the feeling it produced as it licked up and down his most sensitive area had not been on his mental menu. He heard an odd mewl and realised he was producing that sound. He ignored it and concentrated on the extraordinary feeling of Sherlock delving into him, so softly, so gently, so insanely arousing that it was only moments before he was shivering with passionate enjoyment, his fingers no longer clenching the pillow he was resting on, but clawing at the sheets, his breath hot, fast and unsteady, his thoughts unfocused and his body seeking more contact, ever more contact. He had never had an erection so hard, he felt it oozing pre-come, and he feared it may actually pierce through the pillow. _Poor pillow!  
  
_ Sherlock moved a little, and when the tongue returned it was pointier, and actually poked at John’s opening, demanding and gaining entrance accompanied by enthusiastic moans from John. This was something he could never have imagined. Sure, some of his more adventurous girlfriends had touched him there, even the odd kiss, but no one had eaten him like the parfait Sherlock apparently thought he was. He thanked the heavens for the thorough shower he’d insisted on before bed. Sherlock sped up his movements a bit and John bit the pillow for a moment, till the word _pillowbiter_ flashed through his mind, and made him stop suddenly. Right, he would have to revise a lot about his sex life, he decided, starting now. He effected that by pulling his knees a bit under himself and raising his arse towards Sherlock’s mouth, sending a signal that even Sherlock couldn’t misread. The result was explosive. Sherlock spread his buttocks even further and delved into him with such gusto that John had to shout out to him to stop before he came on the spot.  
  
“Am I hurting you?” Sherlock asked, sitting back on his heels, a worried expression on his face.  
  
“God, no! But, isn’t there more, don’t you want to, I assumed that you would, like I did, well maybe not as clumsily as I did, but come inside, pene-… ride me?” John was glad his back was turned to Sherlock so he couldn’t see the scarlet colour he was sporting as he blabbered. He wondered if Sherlock was attentive enough to notice that it wasn’t nervously, but impatiently.  
  
“Yes, John. I would like to be inside you,” Sherlock affirmed.  
  
“Could you do it now?” John queried, a slight hitch to his voice.  
  
“Certainly not, John. You are nowhere near ready.” Sherlock sounded stern.  
  
“Yes, I am. I am.” John squirmed, sure that Sherlock would be convinced by a little arse wriggle.  
  
“Doctor or not, you are not. But you may help guide me,” Sherlock explained as he unceremoniously pushed a lubed up finger knuckle-deep into John, definitely getting his attention.  
  
“Yes. Not there!” John yelped.  
  
Sherlock, startled, pulled his finger out. “Where then? What are the options?”  
  
“Sorry, didn’t mean not that place, just not so… You’re not taking my temperature or stuffing a turkey, gently does it, ok?”  
  
“You mean like this?” Sherlock asked and rubbed his finger tantalizingly slow around the rim, caressing it in a speech impeding, infuriating manner.  
  
“Gnnnnhh,” was John’s subsequent answer.  
  
“Not helpful, John,” Sherlock complained.  
  
“Gnniiinnaittle,” John clarified.  
  
“Huh?” Sherlock felt a sudden inadequacy in communications.  
  
John drew a deep breath. “It’s, it’s, it’s ok, just to push in… a little.” John managed to finally sound mildly coherent.  
  
“Oh, fine. Let me know if it hurts.” Sherlock did as ordered and pushed his finger in slowly, moving it back and forth a little. “Shouldn’t there be a prostate here?” he complained, a little flustered that he couldn’t feel it.   
  
“The other side,” John panted, small droplets of sweat forming on his brow now. “Push your finger down a li… yup! There!” John yelped and Sherlock smirked. 

Sherlock used his new found information with the usual care he afforded new data. He explored. And explored more, and when he felt confident he withdrew his finger and added a second. He repeated the process, and enjoyed the array of sounds he was able to make John utter. It was almost like playing an instrument. He experimented for a while to see if he could get John to produce a scale, but the result was disappointing so he added a third finger instead. This at least enabled John to extend his repertoire with several higher notes, though there was nothing musical about them.  
  
After enduring this unrelenting pressure for almost twenty minutes John cracked. He tried to turn to look at Sherlock but he was hopelessly pinned by his hand. He tried talking instead. After a while he found his voice and croaked “Please, go on, with, it.” He had to pause between each word to swallow, and to confirm with himself that this was really what he wanted.  
  
“Like this? On your knees?” Sherlock queried, as he lubed himself up liberally, very eager to proceed, smearing some more lube onto John for good measure.  
  
John just nodded, raising himself up on all fours, pushing back against Sherlock. It was now or never. If he waited he might lose his nerve. He bit his lower lip as he felt Sherlock push against him, but he couldn’t prevent a small squeal of pain escaping as he was entered, slowly pushed into. John felt Sherlock immediately pause, to give him time to adjust, so when he felt ready he nodded. He felt dizzy as Sherlock pushed all the way in. He was so entirely filled, by Sherlock. The thought was almost impossible to process, particularly since he was overwhelmed with sensation. The pain had subsided, and for a short while it felt odd but intriguing. Then Sherlock moved! And John gasped air in so hard that he rocked back on Sherlock, impaling himself, further enhancing the electrifying sparks that had been unleashed inside him. He mewled, and Sherlock instantly stopped again.  
  
“No, please don’t, please don’t stop,” John urged. “It’s fantastic… just like you did it right now. Do it again”.

Sherlock complied with a smile, though John couldn’t see that. The result was another satisfactory mewl from John, so Sherlock set a pace that would please them both, but hurt none. It was slow. Very slow. But control was one of Sherlock’s drugs, something he excelled at, and how he enjoyed pulling all of John’s strings. Sherlock kept at it for so long that he lost track of time, reciting the periodic scale to himself, sometimes silent, sometimes whispering, to keep from losing his tight control and pummelling into the body beneath him. Eventually John started shivering under him, and when his thighs started shaking violently Sherlock pulled carefully out and helped John turn around to lie on his back. Then he entered him again, carefully, slowly, driving John insane. It had been nearly an hour and John was reduced to whimpers and groans, a boneless puddle against the mattress when Sherlock started to speed things up; with a kiss to John’s forehead he raised himself up on one arm, ramming into John.

John’s mouth formed a soundless ‘o’ when Sherlock’s other hand closed around him and began stroking him. Firmly and steadily. He leaned down till his mouth was close to John’s ear and whispered to him, “Will you come with me inside you? While I stroke you and hold you? Can you come, John? Or do I need to fuck you harder?”  
  
The husky voice and the words took him over the edge. Shaking and clutching at Sherlock he wondered if he would ever walk again, but he didn’t really care. Sherlock followed him within seconds as he felt the muscles contract around him and he collapsed on top of John. They fell asleep like that, Sherlock proving to be the perfect duvet, fitting John as if he’d been made for him.

 

\--- * ---

  

If anything told Greg that he was feeling a bit off, it was the fact that he realised he'd rung the doorbell without thinking about it. The door to 221B was so rarely locked that just walking up the stairs and into the similarly open flat had become a habit. As it was, he felt pretty sheepish when the door slid open after a while, more like a guest than a friend.  
  
"I thought Sherlock had thrown that doorbell out," John grinned as he opened the door. "Are you testing it for him? Oh... come in, you look awful. What happened? Long day?"  
  
"Err… sort of," Greg admitted, squinting at John. "Thanks." He stepped through and started up the stairs, torn between getting the issue off his chest already before they reached the flat or dragging it out for as long as possible.  
  
"Go on up then, I'll put the kettle on, you look like you could use a cup, it’s nearly five anyway,” John said as he ascended the stairs slowly with an awkward gate, followed by Greg. “Sherlock, Greg's here," he called up ahead.  
  
"Oh, case?" Sherlock perked up when he saw Greg enter the room, getting up from his slouching position on the sofa.  
  
"No, not really," Greg admitted, scratching his head while trying to think of what to say. "It's more of a… a social call, I guess."  
  
"Oh God, are we doing those now?" Sherlock lay back down on the sofa, no longer interested.  
  
"Well, with your charms, I'm sure the whole neighbourhood is itching for a chat," Greg pointed out and took a seat himself, hands awkwardly folded in his lap.  
  
"I'm busy. Thinking," Sherlock declared without turning around.   
  
Sherlock screamed loudly and John came running in from the kitchen. Sherlock sat up and glared around, a look of supreme confusion on his face.

“What’s wrong, what happened?” John rushed to his side, his hands running up and down Sherlock’s torso checking for bullet holes.  
  
“It wasn’t me!” Sherlock said.  
  
“What?” John looked baffled.  
  
“Sorry, it’s me,” Greg said and looked at his phone, refusing a call. “It’s just Sally, she can bloody wait. I told her I was off to see you.”  
  
“That’s your ringtone?” John raised a couple of eyebrows in Greg’s direction.  
  
Sherlock glared daggers.  
  
“Yes, yes. Recorded it when Mycroft set his shoulder in Sweden. Just keeping it for April, promise,” he managed a weak smile at Sherlock who answered him by narrowing his eyes, pouting at him and throwing himself down on the sofa again, very pointedly presenting Greg with his back and arse as the phone screamed again. Greg continued to ignore it.

  
"Ignore him," John said and went back to the kitchen. "Sugar?"  
  
"Uh, thanks but no thanks", Greg called back to John, rather used to ignoring Sherlock's Epic Sulks.  
  
"Oh, you're keeping Mycroft’s slim line?" John asked as he came in with a cup of tea, handing it to Greg.  
  
"Nah, I'm... I just need it black at the moment, I think," Greg admitted, taking the cup gratefully.  
  
"So wassup?" John said as he made himself comfortable at the end of the sofa, squeezing in between the armrest and Sherlock’s feet.  
  
Greg blinked down at his cup for a few moments, trying to find a way of saying it without sounding petulant. He'd rehearsed on the way over; sentences like "I'm afraid that Mycroft's attentions are elsewhere" and similar verbose statements. What came out instead sounded woefully like a pitiful sniff of "I think My's in love with that woman."  
  
Sherlock sat back up again.  
  
"What woman?" John said, eyes as big as his cup.  
  
Greg cursed himself inwardly, only too aware of how utterly pathetic that had sounded, so he tried again, this time managing Petulant Brat instead. "That Mrs. Pike. He's there almost constantly, and talks about nothing but her these days!"  
  
Sherlock lay back down again, uninterested. "Poppycock," he wheezed.  
  
"Sherlock! Sorry, Greg, he's a little... the case... What do you mean he's there? Isn't he working?"  
  
"I thought so. But then I get these texts about how Mrs P needs so-and-so and how he 'just popped over'"... Greg hung his head.  
  
"She's a recent widow, use your common sense, you are a detective of sorts - so think." Sherlock said grumpily. "Why would he be interested in her when he has you?"  
  
Greg glared at Sherlock. "Oh, I don't know - she's rich, good-looking, and apparently knows exactly how to act in the kind of circles that Mycroft moves around in, whereas I'm a low-to-middle class cop who sometimes works 16 hours a day and whose best suit was bought at a sale?"  
  
"Your best suit is being made right now. Half of Savile Row are working on your wardrobe," Sherlock chided. "He's never spoilt anyone like he spoils you, and you think she can just swan in there and take that away?"  
  
"Yes, Greg." John leant forwards. "He really does dote on you. Don't you think you're misunderstanding him? Isn't he just trying to be a good host, friend, or whatever diplomats are?"  
  
"She hasn't just 'swanned in'", Greg almost spat, surprised at his own reaction. "They've known each other for years! And My always says he has no real friends and doesn't care much to make any, and suddenly there are two!"  
  
"She's the wife of a friend. A dead friend to boot. Her status is that of a colleague," Sherlock corrected him and got up. "I'm going to my lab," he declared to John. "I need peace and quiet to think."  
  
Greg took a breath and started considering the possibility that he might just have overreacted. Sherlock had a surprisingly sobering effect on people sometimes. "You think?" he asked and peered at John, taking a huge swig from his cup to hide his face.  
  
"Of course I think! That's how I solve cases... oh, you mean I think he wouldn't? Arrh," Sherlock huffed. "Use your own brain matter, just a bit. I'll be up in the lab, John."  
  
"Rude, Sherlock," John said quietly.  
  
"Wait... 'Up' in the lab? What happened to the kitchen variety?"  
  
"Someone shot it to hell..." Sherlock said and disappeared upstairs.  
  
"I reclaimed the kitchen." John shrugged. "Built him a lab in my old room. He's been surprisingly easy going since."  
  
Greg stared at him for a long while, cogs turning. There was no doubt to anyone who'd known them for more than thirty seconds that Sherlock was the light of John's life, quite literally, and John had built Sherlock a lab. Mycroft had built Greg a den. If you wanted to jump to conclusions, that should technically mean...  
  
"Are you ok there, Greg?" John leant in, a little concerned.  
  
Upstairs, Texting commenced.

          -  _'You are an incompetent lover who does not know how to keep your man happy. Fix it. - SH'_

  
"Err, yeah. Sorry, just thinking." Greg was starting to feel more and more embarrassed - he'd come here with what felt like a huge, gaping void inside, and in just a few minutes it had changed into feeling like the void was in his head instead. "I guess I'm not very good at it." He grinned wryly.

"What aren't you any good at?" John wondered, taking Greg's empty cup away.

          -  _'If your new lab is too small to contain fumes you should open a window, and stop inhaling them. You are clearly delirious. Mind your own love life - MH'_

  
"Thinking. Seems I get stuff wrong a lot," Greg admitted, blushing.

"Everyone does compared to Sherlock, I gave that up long ago. Should I get you something stronger? A whiskey perhaps? 'fraid I haven't got my own beer tabs."

_  
\- 'I can't mind my love life because it's being interrupted by your boyfriend. He is clearly devastated. What have you done with Nicole? - SH'_

  
"Okay, a little one," Greg said, pretending to have an itchy eye. When the itch was dealt with, he made a brave attempt at looking John in the eyes. "Holmses," he said weakly. "They really get to you, huh?"

"They're like mercury. Impossible to hold properly on to," John admitted.  
  
          -  _'Why is your love life anywhere near my boyfriend? If you are on a case with him, I expect your behaviour to be professional - MH'_

 

"Hah," Greg snorted, feeling oddly relieved to be talking about someone else, "as if you could pry Sherlock off you with a crowbar and a stick of dynamite!"

"Why would I want to try that? We have plenty of explosions around here without that." John smiled. "But seriously. What has Mycroft said that makes you think he's interested in Nicole? He has seemed to have made a gender choice lately, that doesn't favour her... Shit, I'm beginning to sound like Sherlock." John smirked.

          - ' _We are not on a case. He is here, insinuating himself between me and John with a broken heart. You are the breakee. I repeat, fix it.- SH'_

  
"I don't know," Greg sighed. "I mean, I used to think my self-esteem was all right, but... I have days when I don't get it. What he sees in me, I mean. He's all elegant and posh and dressed in what probably amounts to two years' rent back at my old dump every day, and I'm, well..." He gestured helplessly at himself.

"A bit of a catch, actually. He's damn lucky to have you. Anyway, the Holmes boys don't have conventional taste in partners," John gestured to himself.

          -  _'What is there to fix? How am I purported to have broken a heart? - MH'_

 

“Oh, you think?” Greg snickered, feeling a little bit better. “But she is just so perfect for him, and now she is available.”  
  
“You really think he’s that fickle?” John got the whiskey bottle out - Greg would just have to take a taxi home.

 _\- 'He believes you are going to pursue a romantic relationship with Nicole Pike now that her husband is dead, and she is free._  
            _He is bemoaning you in my living room. It’s intolerable. – SH'_  
  
  
“He is ambitious. Proud. Important. I mean, he dines with the Queen on occasion, for crying out loud. _Her_ , he would actually be able to bring to those dinners,” Greg wailed.

_\-   'I’ll be right over. Don’t let him leave - MH'_

 

“You want dinner with the queen?” John wasn’t quite sure he was getting it right.  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t mind, but that’s not the point. I want My to want to take me to dinner with the queen. Does that make sense?” Greg sighed, knowing that day would never come.  
  
“It’ll make more sense once we’ve made some inroads on this whiskey, I think,” John said and raised his glass in salute. They both took a large swig and sat in silence for a while.  
  
“Stop that,” John said, looking up.  
  
“What?” Gregory looked up too, pulling himself away from the thought he had been lost in.  
  
“You’re crying. I can’t hack a grown man crying. I’ve no idea what to do, except possibly sedate you,” John frowned.  
  
“You are,” Greg answered and held his glass up.  
  
Sirens were heard. Sirens got loud, very loud. They looked at each other, then at the window. The sirens stopped.  
  
Greg stood as they heard footsteps pummelling up the staircase and Mycroft hurled himself through the door. He barely glanced at John, just growled “out!” and pointed at the door. John was only too happy to comply and fled upstairs to Sherlock.  
  
John and Sherlock sat companionably in the lab together. Sherlock was elated because he had finally figured out that the substance on Lake’s shirt was saline. It gave him several theories. John liked it when Sherlock was elated.  
  
It was very quiet downstairs, but after half an hour or so Mycroft called up to them, “We’re going home now. Thanks for calling me. Don’t stir yourselves, we will be fine. Lunch Saturday, if convenient.”

Sherlock had just mentioned to John that it was time to go and get Gladys home when a shot rang out. They hurried to the window, watching Mycroft cradle Greg in his arms, the blood pouring onto Baker Street, several guards springing into action around them.

 

 


	14. Of course, had to be negative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officer down. Nuff said about that! And John discovers a latent talent in Sherlock, of course inappropriately used.

 

 

 

Mycroft was in shock. It was the first time in his life that he was frozen, unable to act, unable to breathe. Gregory had collapsed right beside him, and he had instinctively reacted and caught him before he hit the ground. Now he lay in his arms, bleeding profusely from a leg wound, fully conscious, his large brown eyes burning into Mycroft’s. And he couldn’t do anything but stare back and not think the unthinkable.  
  
Mycroft’s driver, bodyguard and Dee and Dum, however, proved why they were among the foremost agents in the world. Within three seconds all four of them had assessed the fact; that their chances of apprehending the shooter was too low on the scale compared to the effort they could effectuate in aiding the victim. Before Mycroft drew his first shaky breath, one had ripped Greg’s trouser leg the length of his leg, the second had removed his own belt and was in the process of placing it around the upper thigh to form a tourniquet. The third retrieved the first aid kit from the car, while the driver backed the car up on the sidewalk, inches from the injured man, while on the phone to the A&E advising them they would be bringing in a shooting victim in four minutes.

Once the tourniquet was in place the three of them forcibly removed Greg from Mycroft’s arms and placed him on the back seat of the car. They then pushed Mycroft into the front seat next to the driver while two of them crowded in with Greg in the backseat, holding bandages to the wound and keeping the leg as elevated as possible. There was a lot of blood, but they worked around it.  
  
Dee remained behind, taking up position just inside the door to 221 B, and with a gun in his hand he scanned the area for any signs of a gunman. As he had expected all seemed quiet, as if nothing had happened, except for the pool of blood on the pavement.  
  
By the time Sherlock had thrown on a pair of trousers, a shirt and his coat Greg was already being wheeled into the A&E. Dee had got his own car and driven it up on the sidewalk, so close to the door that all John and Sherlock had to do was open the door and dive into it. Within minutes they were following the others to the hospital.  
  
Once they arrived Dee joined the other three guards and they distributed themselves around the rooms, discreetly guarding their charges.

 

Mycroft looked like he was swaying, standing up against the door barring him from Gregory. Sherlock knew only too well how he felt, but there were doors that could keep out even the mighty Government Man. Uncharacteristically and a little clumsily Sherlock put an arm around his brother, giving him a squeeze. The gesture only lasted seconds, but it was enough to jolt Mycroft out of his stupor, and he stared at Sherlock.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispered, swallowing against a dry mouth, then turning back to stare in through the miniscule window in the door.  
  
“Have they said anything?” John enquired, using his best calming-a-patient voice.  
  
“No, but it’s bad. It’s the main artery; he’s lost a lot of blood coming over here. He lost consciousness almost as soon as we drove off.” Mycroft bit his lip, and shot back from the door as he saw a doctor approach. A second later the door opened.  
  
“I understand that this is a VIP?” the surgeon asked.  
  
“Very much so,” Mycroft confirmed with a nod.  
  
“Are you in a position to require aid?” the doctor asked Mycroft.  
  
“Anything you need!” Mycroft looked relieved to be able to do something.  
  
“We have a problem. He is O negative, and we need blood. More than we have here. Can you requisition from other hospitals?” The doctor didn’t wait for an answer before he turned around and went back in, so he missed Mycroft’s emphatic nod.  
  
Mycroft stared at Sherlock. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Mycroft raised his too, and nodded.  
  
“Oh, bugger!” Sherlock spat.  
  
“Please, Sherlock?” Mycroft virtually begged.  
  
“It had to be O neg. Of course.” Sherlock threw his hands up. “Let me guess, the nation is out of it again?”  
  
“Pretty much, yes. As we always are. There’s a bit around, I’ll get that transferred. But it may not be enough. It doesn’t get much rarer, and as you know, O type patients can only receive that type. So you know what to do. I can’t… I just can’t right now.”  
  
“I’ll call, if you’ll arrange the transport,” Sherlock looked pretty put out, and he clenched his teeth as he got his phone out and dialled. He walked down the corridor a bit, and John went with him. He only heard bits of the conversation, but after the first two words he understood Sherlock’s apprehension.  
  
“Hello, mummy?”  
  
\---*---  
  
Sherlock and John took the car to London City Airport where the helicopter arrived after a short wait. Dee helped Mrs Holmes out, and escorted her to the car where Sherlock waited outside. He gave her a polite peck on the cheek and then gestured to John who stood beside him. “Mum, this is my lover, Dr John Watson. John, this is my mother. I don’t believe you have formally met.”

“Lover? Doctor?” She actually managed to convey the two words in her facial expression as her eyebrows shot up, very Mycroft-like - John could certainly see the family resemblance, just as her mouth split in a broad smile. “Finally a doctor in the family. About time. So you got off the fence and decided to play for a team after all.” She nodded at both of them as she got into the car, Sherlock and John following. All of them fit in the back seat.  
  
“Mycroft did it first.” Sherlock’s lower lip pouted outwards as he parted with this information. “He has a male lover, and he’s the one who’s been shot. They need you badly. When did you donate last?”

“Oh, weeks and weeks ago. I’m fully loaded and ready to go. Just get me my juice and chocolate afterwards. Have you booked a suite for me?” she asked, as she checked her lipstick in a small mirror.  
  
“I think Mycroft is expecting you to stay with him at the town house. I don’t think he wants to be alone if Gregory has to stay long at the hospital,” Sherlock explained. “Assuming he survives,” he added glumly.  
  
“Surely a private nurse can be brought in, so he can recuperate at home? And we already have a doctor,” she smiled at John who felt he ought to say something, he just had no idea what. It was hard for him to wrap his brain around the fact that Mycroft and Sherlock both had a mother. A quite human one, apparently. Not to mention that Sherlock had just outed them with the same casual air that he’d use to announce that they’d had Chinese for dinner.

“They may have to hook you up directly, I don’t know how bad it is,” Sherlock said as he dialled Mycroft on his phone. “We’re on our way, should be there in fifteen minutes.” Dee slapped a siren on the roof of the car and turned it on. “Make that ten. Yes, aha, of course it was. Of course he will. See you.”  
  
“Any change?” John found his voice and looked worried as he queried Sherlock.  
  
“Mycroft has got all the O negative he can from other hospitals, but it was very little, and they need more, he’s still unconscious and the heart rate is nothing to brag about. The shot was meant to kill, not just take him down, Mycroft believes.” Sherlock frowned as he added the new information to his data storage for the case.  
  
“What are you boys up to? Is this all related to the horrible murder of Langdale?” Mrs Holmes demanded.  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock said curtly, and immersed himself in thought again.  
  
John took up the conversation. “He got first aid very quickly. I saw it out our window. He has the best chances for survival.” He tried to assure her.  
  
“Well, I have never met the man, but I assume he is worth saving if Mycroft can get Sherlock to call me. How long has he and Mycroft…?” she waved her hand about in the air, as if that should automatically fill out the sentence. It actually did, and John answered her.  
  
“Only a matter of weeks, but it’s pretty serious. They already live together,” he explained.  
  
“You and Sherlock have lived together for years. Am I to assume…?” The hand again.

“Oh, no! We’re very recent. Just a few days, we’ve never been… always good friends, but… I didn’t even know I was in love with him till someone tried to kill him, that is, someone other than myself.”

“I hear you,” she patted John’s hand. “But I’m not keen on anyone trying to kill any of my boys. Do be more careful, won’t you!”  
  
John smiled to himself. Now he knew where the Holmes boys got the habit of making questions sound like orders.  
  
They arrived at the hospital in record time and Dee rushed them into the A&E where a very pale Mycroft sat wringing his hands. He looked up with tear-filled eyes as they entered.  
  
_Oh, no,_ John thought. That couldn’t be good.  
  
“Dear boy,” Mrs Holmes pulled him up into a hug. “What’s happened?”

“His heart stopped,” Mycroft sobbed, “I saw it through the little window. There was such panic. They all shouted and pressed, and moved about, and I couldn’t do anything. He was dead there for a while, till they got his heart started again. And I’m out here, useless, inadequate, and pointless.” The true terror was predominant in Mycroft’s voice.  
  
“Not true, darling,” she soothed, stroking her hand over his hair. “You sent for me, and I have come. Now let’s get your darling some blood, shall we! Where do you want me?”  
  
Mycroft sobered up and replaced his sobbing features with his business face. “They have set up for you in the next room, and the bags will be taken directly to him. How much do you think…?”  
  
“I’ll let the doctors be the judge of that, but I am sure I have enough,” she assured him and dropped her coat and bag on the chair next to Mycroft, and walked into the adjoining room, rolling her sleeves up as she went. John thought she was the most formidable woman he had ever seen, and even Sherlock seemed to smile. Mycroft relaxed visibly and resumed his watch by the door, a little less fidgety than before.  
  
Two hours later the doctors declared the crisis over, the wound no longer life threatening. You could tell that Mycroft was struggling to not outright hug the surgeon when he broke the news to them.  
  
“Can I see him?” Mycroft begged with decorum, a contradiction that John pondered for a while.  
  
“Not quite yet, we are going to stitch the artery up properly now, so we’re keeping him anesthetised. Then we’ll work on closing the actual wound, could take a while, we’d want minimal scarring, and given his position in the police force, I assume he’ll want to get back in shape as soon as possible, so we’re going to be very careful around the muscles. You can see him when we are done. Right now, you should see to your mother, the donor. He would not be alive if it wasn’t for her. She will probably need something to eat, and a few kind words.” The surgeon finished his little monologue and went back to the emergency room, leaving Mycroft with no one to protest to but the door.  
  
“Right!” Mycroft straightened up, and turned to face the room, ignoring the fact that his eyes were brimming with tears of relief, “who’s going to Harrod’s to pick up a pizza for mummy?”  
  
“I’ll go.” Dee said and held his hand out towards Mycroft, his fingers wriggling in expectation of a credit card. “I remember her preferences. Should I bring for everyone?”  
  
“Oh, yes please,” Sherlock said, and John startled when he heard his own stomach growling, realising Sherlock was probably right. As Dee left, Mycroft went to sit by his recuperating mother, and finding themselves alone in the waiting room Sherlock pulled John into a tight hug.  
  
“I missed you tonight,” he huffed into John’s ear.  
  
“I have been by your side all night,” John frowned, not understanding Sherlock’s complaint.  
  
“I missed you around me,” he clarified, his breath warm and very close to John’s ear. _In_ the ear, actually.  
  
“Around you?” John’s voice was a little unsteady, Sherlock’s voice was so deep that the sound waves were doing unnatural things to his brain synapses, he hypothesized. Well, something was liquefying his bones.  
  
“Yes, you know what I mean. I was inside you for so long last night; I can still feel you around me, except you are not really there. I miss that. I want to be moving inside you again as soon as possible, in fact I yearn for it. Every fibre in my body aches to have you naked in my arms, holding your whriting body while I move hard in and out of you and...”  
  
“Sherlock! Sherlock, could you stop this please, we are in a hospital!” John nearly whined.  
  
“Stop what?” Sherlock looked mystified.  
  
“This dirty talk. You are very good at it, I grant you, but this is neither the time nor the place.”  
  
“There is nothing unhygienic about my vocabulary. I really don’t understand what you mean, John.” Sherlock’s frown was indeed very deep, conveying his confusion as he rested his forehead against John’s.  
  
“Sherlock, are you really not aware that what you are saying is sex talk? Like last night when you asked me… erm asked me... told me… said… whispered to me that you wondered if…” John’s voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper as he repeated Sherlock’s words from the night before, “you asked me if you needed to fuck me harder in order for me to come. Didn’t you say that just do drive me over the edge, to make me come harder?” John discreetly adjusted himself, his trousers currently and suddenly about three sizes too small.  
  
“No, John. I’m sorry if that is how you perceived it. At the time I was unsure whether the pressure and velocity that I exerted while moving in and out of you was sufficient to bring you to completion. I was particularly confused at the time since I was constantly very close to coming myself, and I wanted you to come with me. I am sorry if my talking made it more difficult for you,” Sherlock finished, looking gutted.  
  
John looked at him and guffawed. “You do know I love you, right? Or are you just trying to make me love you harder, you insane madman?” John paused in his tirade to kiss Sherlock’s jaw, emphatically. Then went on to explain, “YOU need to watch your words, because your voice and those words are a lethal combination. I swear, one day you’ll talk me into coming while I’m waiting for bus line eighteen,” John smiled.  
  
“Simply by declaring how easily you arouse me when we have sexual intercourse, and even when I just reminisce about it?” Sherlock still wasn’t quite getting John’s point.  
  
John answered with a blush and a shake of his head, just as Mycroft reappeared. “What have you done to John to cause such a flattering facial complexion?” Mycroft looked at Sherlock.  
  
“I just told him how much I enjoy it wh… ouch!” He cut off to bend down and rub at his sore shin, frowning at John who glared at him quite ardently.  
  
“Silly boy,” Mycroft managed a small smile. “Mummy would like to talk to us, come through with me.”  
  
“It’s a little late for ‘the talk’, don’t you think?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose and John had to restrain himself from kissing it.  
  
“Obviously,” Mycroft answered and turned back, not bothering to check if Sherlock and John were following. John wasn’t.

John had turned in search of a rest room, explaining “I just need a bit of cold water in my face, tired, you know.”  
  
Mycroft smirked and walked ahead, but Sherlock waited till John came back out, with a more Caucasian skin tone.  
  
John gently pushed Sherlock in front of him as they went into the adjoining room. Mrs Holmes was very pale, reclining on a gurney, sipping from a glass of orange juice while a clinical assistant was clearing away the tray they had used to draw the blood.  
  
“Ah, my boys,” she looked up and smiled at them, then gestured to the chairs in the room. “Have a seat. I’m told to lie still here for at least fifteen more minutes before getting up, so we may as well have a little chat.”  
  
John sat down, wondering what _a little chat_ consisted off in the Holmes family, intrigued to find out. Mrs Holmes did not disappoint him.  
  
“Not that I am not all for love, in any way you can find it, but I would like to know how you boys intend to supply me with grandchildren now that you have made a life choice that makes this fact biologically challenging?”  
  
“I am not having children, mummy. I don’t have the time. Nothing has changed in that regard, that is how it was, is and always will be. Surely you know,” Mycroft answered, leaning back and looking at Sherlock as if he’d passed a baton.  
  
“Aha. Yes, I do recall having had this debate with you before, Mikey, but you may want to consult with your new better half, he may see it differently,” she reminded him, waving _the hand_ vaguely about. “You two, then?” her gaze fell on Sherlock and John. Sherlock simply gazed back, his mouth slightly open, but silently so, so John took it upon himself to answer after a while, knowing that Sherlock could sit like that for a long, long time.  
  
“With our lifestyle, I’m afraid children are out. They would be shot at, kidnapped, harassed, in constant need of bodyguards or medical attention. Hauled between Scotland Yard, Baker Street, school and crime scenes. Not a life for kids, sorry Mrs Holmes,” John finished with a glance at Sherlock, sitting back with a smug smile, feeling he had explained himself sufficiently. He couldn’t have been more wrong.  
  
“Admirable concern for your not yet adopted or surrogated children, John. However,” she paused to take a deep breath, an idiosyncrasy John’s mind would later make synonymous with the word ‘run’, and continued, “nothing you have stated can not be countermanded with good planning, manpower, cooperation, bus plans, drivers, healthy meals and above all love. I have given birth to Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, raised them, seen them through childhood and school, challenges and deprivation, and helped them land in a world not built for them, yet see them happy, settled, loved and alive. If that is possible, do you not think that you and Sherlock would be able to produce one itsy bitsy grandchild for me? I don’t think it’s much to ask. Some more juice please, Mycroft. And did someone say pizza?” She finally paused for a breath and John stared at Sherlock who hadn’t moved an inch during the little speech.  
  
“Sherlock?” he said, wondering when his voice had reverted to the level and pitch of his teens.  
  
“Yes, John?”  
  
“Do we have to have children now? It’s a bit much, I mean with Gladys being pregnant and all.”  
  
“True, I think we may have to wait a bit,” Sherlock answered, nodding.  
  
“Gladys?” Mrs Holmes raised an eyebrow that threatened to take out the ceiling lamp.  
  
“Yes, mummy. It’ll only be about four weeks,” Sherlock elaborated.  
  
“Oh Sherlock, when you start on something, you really go about it, don’t you? Or is it yours, John?” She smiled at the both of them.  
  
“What? No! Not mine and certainly not Sherlock’s!” John felt slightly annoyed.  
  
Mycroft finally stirred, perhaps feeling he had to aid in their defence since they were now in the front line of the grandkids war in stead of him. “Gladys is Langdale’s dog, mummy. Sherlock and John have been kind enough to take her in since Nicole is stationed in Singapore, and you know how I feel about dog hairs on the Chesterfield. And she is apparently pregnant, so a litter is expected. Would you like one? I’m sure Sherlock can spare one.”  
  
“No! I do not want another dog. I still miss Redbeard. Buy a dog, buy a sorrow! Not my cup of tea. I want grandchildren, and I will leave it to you two to sort it out between you who will provide it, but I warn you, my patience is not endless. Two years, then I want to hear some sort of pitter patter when you come for Christmas, and now where is that pizza?” She got off the gurney and wrapped herself in her great coat striding into the waiting room.  
  
“We’re doing Christmas at your mum’s place now?” John stared at Sherlock, wondering why he was reduced to asking questions, and seemed out of the loop of decision makers.  
  
“Only if there’s a crime scene in the vicinity,” Sherlock told him.  
  
She’d heard him. “There will be if you don’t turn up on time!”  
  
Dinner was a quiet affair, though the pizza was scrumptious. Mycroft didn’t eat a bite, and he turned more and more grey as time passed till a nurse finally came out to get him. “We’re all done with him now. Patched up, cleaned up and bandaged. He’s going to be just fine. We’re transferring him to a ward in a minute, but you can go in and see him first,” she told him.  
  
“Is he awake?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“Oh, no. He’ is fast asleep and well stabilized with pain killers. He won’t wake till the morning.”  
  
“Fine, have an extra bed put in his room, I’m staying.” Mycroft announced, and the nurse simply nodded and left.  
  
“Want to come see the man whose life you saved, mummy?” Mycroft gestured to the emergency room that housed the sleeping Greg, and she got up, smiling as she joined Mycroft.  
  
She came back out a few minutes later, leaving Mycroft alone with Greg. She settled down by the pizza boxes smiling at Sherlock. “He’s beautiful. Is he as nice as he is pretty?”

“If you can live with the intellectual level of a Yardsman, I’m sure he’s passable.” Sherlock shrugged.  
  
“He’s the smartest cop there, you’ve said so yourself,” John chided him, elbowing him slightly in the side.

“If I must choose,” Sherlock huffed.  
  
“High praise indeed,” Mrs Holmes smiled. “Now, which one of your bodyguards is taking me home to the house? I’m quite tired.”  
  
“That would be George,” Dee said, nodding at Dum. John felt a bit embarrassed that he didn’t even know their names.  
  
“Right then, George, shall we? Mycroft is not leaving here tonight, so I shall have the house and the butler all to myself, what luxury!” She grinned and bent down to kiss Sherlock goodbye.  
  
She gave John’s shoulder a little squeeze, and winked at him. “I have no preferences as to whether you get a boy or a girl, so don’t worry about that.”  
  
John shook his head at her and offered a tired smile to send her off.  
  
Shortly after, Sherlock and John went home with Dee. John shuddered as he passed the blood still on the sidewalk, happy that Greg had survived after all.  
  
His happiness was toned down when he found a letter for him from the court. It gave him a court date on the 14th of May, where he was to stand trial for the murder of Langdale Pike. He threw the letter on the coffee table and went to the fridge for a beer. When he saw Sherlock pick the letter up he brought a beer for him too.  
  
“Don’t worry, John. I will have the case solved by then. This will never happen.”

“I trust you. God knows I have to. I just can’t get over that idiot Dimmock…” John kicked angrily at the pile of magazines he’d stacked there earlier.

“Ignore him. That works for me, I have no time for idiots.” Sherlock smirked and took the offered beer, though he was clearly annoyed with the summons. “What time is it?”  
  
“Nearly ten, this was a horrible evening.” John took a deep swig of his beer.  
  
“Too late to get Gladys then. I’ll get her in the morning.” John could tell that Sherlock was trying to hide his anger towards Dimmock, and his frustration in lack of progress on the case, only John knew him too well for that. “Right now I have a few tests to finish, they are a bit overdue, so I’ll be upstairs,” Sherlock announced and bounded up the stairs, trampling so hard with every step that the staircase shook.  
  
John sulked a bit on his own on the sofa, but then his glance fell on the calendar on the coffee table. 30th of April. Last day of the teasing month. He just had to get something off his chest and they both seriously needed to lighten the mood. He dug his cell phone out and texted Sherlock.  
  
_\- Can I entice you to come down and join me in bed around midnight, perhaps? – JW_  
  
_\- Busy. But I love you. – SH_

 _\- Even when this is waiting for you?– JW_  
   Picture attached.  
  
John dug out the photo from their first night. He felt a slight twitch of arousal as he remembered how hard he’d come, and then the feeling of Sherlock coming all over his back. He added the photo to his text and pressed send, then listened attentively. After a few seconds he heard a low chuckle from above.  
  
_\- Absolutely. With that waiting for me, who could refuse? – SH_  
  
John chuckled to himself and decided to have a long warm shower before bed, he may need it - with a bit of luck. When he got out of the shower a text was waiting for him.  
  
_\- Thank you for the inspiration, but my partner and I shall remain chaste for tonight. Or do I take it_ _that you have already forgotten that I am currently monitoring Sherlock’s phone for his own safety?_ _Last chance for April’s fools. 1_ st May tomorrow – MH  
  
John never answered, but Sherlock did.  
  
_\- Then you may remove my scream from Gregory’s phone, and delete the picture of my lover’s glorious arse from yours - permanently! – SH_  
  
  
It was a very warm last of April night in 221 B.

 

 

 

 


	15. Just dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The funeral service for Langdale is followed by a visit, something John really wanted for a long time delivered by Mummy Holmes, a pie becomes a new type of service, and there’s a bit of progress and also a problem.

 

  

Mycroft reluctantly left Greg at the hospital as he went to the funeral service Sunday morning. He had offered to stay, but Greg wouldn’t have it. Langdale had been his best friend, and Mycroft was giving the eulogy.  
  
John and Sherlock had picked Nicole Pike up, and escorted her to the service. They didn’t want Greg to worry about a thing, and even though Mycroft had explained at length just exactly how interested he was in her, or rather not, they didn’t want to give Greg cause for another bout of jealousy.

  
It was a rather tame affair. No murderers stood up to confess their sin in the church, though there were rather a lot of pretty ladies present. John figured this was nature’s way of poking its tongue out at him, now that he had finally found someone who loved him, who was definitely not a pretty lady, though he had the hair to rival most of them.   
  
Donovan and Anderson represented the Yard, and they were unusually sombre at the occasion. Sherlock remarked this to John, who ascribed it to worry about Greg.   
  
It was obvious that Mycroft was very uncomfortable leaving Greg alone at the hospital, and directly after the service he approached Sherlock and John.   
  
“If I let you have the car, will you please escort Nicole to the luncheon in the courtyard garden at Boisdale’s and make my excuses? I really must get back. I’ll see her sometime tonight, or she’s welcome to come see me at the hospital,” he suggested. “Mummy is shopping, but she’ll be back sometime after lunch, I expect.”  
  
“I think the less contact between Nicole and Greg, the better,” Sherlock smirked. “So no, no hospital visits for her. We’ll take her to the lunch and then home. How long is she staying?”  
  
“She’s off to Singapore on Tuesday, and I doubt Gregory will be released before then, so that’s a fortuitous happenstance at least,” Mycroft sighed, his worry lines getting deeper.  
  
“Stop worrying, he survived, he’ll be fine,” Sherlock admonished him.   
  
“He survived this attack, yes. But what if there’s another? I’m going to bring in more agents on this case, Sherlock. You’re not getting there fast enough,” Mycroft informed him, not waiting for an answer before he turned and left the church. 

  
Sherlock’s lower lip was shaking slightly, a sign John knew well and he moved quickly to stave off the worst of the Rage Attack that would be followed by Insulted Skulk, leading up to Epic Sulk.  
  
“Please, Sherlock? Let him? I’m quite worried too, you know.” John let all his wrinkles show as he frowned deeply enough for Sherlock to understand that he really was worried. “We’re all in someone’s cross hairs here, and I really, really don’t like it. Both you and Greg have come very close to, to… to the unthinkable, and my nerves are also getting a little frayed.”  
  
“I’ll do it quicker without his help, or his incompetent agents,” Sherlock snorted derisively and John hurried to take his arm.  
  
“Yes, of course you would, but not right now. Right now we need to be supportive of the widow, and give Mycroft and Greg some time together at the hospital. It was great to hear he’d awoken this morning, huh?” John could hear that he sounded a tad too cheerful, and Sherlock wasn’t buying it either.  
  
“Of course he woke up, he didn’t die. Would have been pointless with all that effort last night if he hadn’t awoken. It’s not exactly an accomplishment to wake up, John. You do it every day.” He pulled to free his arm but John held fast.  
  
“Ah, but I have you to wake up to, and that surly smile of yours. Ah, Nicole, there you are.” The widow turned up just as John was beginning to feel he was holding a tiger by the tail, and he smiled gratefully at her. “Mycroft left us the car to take you to the lunch; he had to go back.”  
  
“Oh? Gregory is not getting worse, is he?” She looked worried.  
  
“No, not that we’ve heard, but Mycroft finds it difficult to be parted from him in this situation,” John explained.  
  
“I dare say. I am sorry that you are all in such grave danger from this case. I really can’t think what Langdale could have been up to that could cause this. His articles were at best… annoying.” She shrugged and took Sherlock’s other arm, and together they got him out of the church without incidents.  
  
“You are correct,” Sherlock informed her, and John wondered if she was aware of just how high praise that was. “I have read through all of his work from the last year, and there is nothing in it that can cause insult, hatred or murderous rage. It is at best amusing, at worst boring.”  
  
“There, there. His articles always made me laugh,” John reminded them.  
  
“Little minds…” Sherlock started, but let it trail off with a heavy sigh. John managed to kick him in the butt without anyone seeing it.  
  
The lunch was a quiet affair; such things tend to be. Nicole had picked the place because it had been one of her husband’s favourites, and the way the waiters greeted the attending women, it was quite obvious that he had been there often, John thought. Donovan had disappeared so it was only Anderson who represented the Yard, and he wisely kept far away from John and Sherlock.   
  
After lunch they went to the vet’s to pick up Gladys, and they brought Nicole so she could at least visit with her dog before leaving the country again. Gladys was quite glad to see her. She was ecstatic to see Sherlock, and John got almost a full lick in acknowledgment of his presence. They walked her a bit in the small park behind the clinic, heavily guarded, before returning to the car and dropping Nicole off at Roslyn Hill. They then ventured home with Gladys asleep on the back seat, her head in Sherlock’s lap. John was getting a little jealous.  
  
He felt better when they got home to find Mummy Holmes waiting for them. Mrs Hudson had supplied her with tea, and the two ladies were exchanging stories about Sherlock. He immediately disappeared upstairs to his lab, declaring that he would be working on a highly toxic experiment and was not to be disturbed. Mrs Hudson took Gladys downstairs with her, promising to take her for a short walk when she was going to do her shopping. John wondered if she was aware of just how many guards Mycroft had shadowing her. He was left alone with Mrs Holmes, and gave her his best smile as he joined her on the sofa.  
  
So it was that John Watson finally, finally got to see the baby pictures of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Mycroft’s pictures were pretty much as you’d expect; somewhat lighter hair, more of it, and a bit of baby fat - well quite a lot actually, more like a rotund baby - whereas Sherlock looked exactly the same only completely out of proportions. John howled with laughter as Mrs Holmes brought up picture after picture on her I-pad showing a miniature Sherlock with a huge head of hair, huge hands and enormous eyes. He reminded John of a puppy. When they were done she downloaded a copy of the folder to a usb stick and gave it to John. He kept expecting Mycroft’s agents to slam down the door and wrench it from his hands, but nothing happened.  
  
Mrs Holmes blatantly ignored Sherlock’s orders and barged into his lab to give him a big hug and kiss on the cheek, bidding him goodbye, admonishing him to eat better and to come have lunch with her before she left town again, which wouldn’t be till Greg was home and healed, she assured him. He grumbled something semi-polite at her and pushed her out, closing the door behind her.  
  
After another hour he opened the door again and called down to John in triumph. “John, I think I have it! Have the car brought around, I’m calling the clinic now!”  
  
“You have what?” John called back up, and then decided to ascend the stairs instead of shouting. Sherlock was just explaining his theory to one of the doctors at the Hertford clinic, rounding the conversation off by promising to have the solution sent out there.  
  
He gave John a small triumphant smile as he held up a vial of a dark looking substance, presenting it to John with an air of great importance. “I have tested this three times now, and I’ve had a very satisfactory outcome. It may produce significant improvement in Rain’s condition or at the worst cause no harm. Will you get Tweedledee to take it out there?”  
  
“I will, I will, if you’ll start calling them by their real names, ok?” John demanded.  
  
“Sure, sure. You know them?” Sherlock promised.  
  
“Yes, it’s George and err… nope, you’re right. I just know that Tweedledum is called George, don’t know Dee’s real name. I’ll go down and ask him, and ask him if he’ll drive your concoction out there. It won’t suddenly self combust, will it?” he teased as he took the vial and ran down the stairs with it, not waiting for a withering glare from Sherlock.  
  
Dee was just inside the front door, reading something on his phone when John asked him to bring the car around and go to the Hertford Clinic with the drug. He was happy to oblige, but called George first, to take over his guard. It turned out, that George had been ‘posted’ at Speedy’s all day, working his way through the menu. Before he went upstairs John remembered himself.  
  
“Urm, yeah, this is a bit embarrassing giving how we owe your our lives and stuff like that, but, erm, I don’t actually know your real name, only George’s. What’s yours”?  
  
“It’s Michael,” Michael informed him.  
  
“Really?” John snickered, and Michael nodded.  
  
“Really? George and Michael? Your real names?” he asked again. “Or as real as Anthea’s real name?”  
  
“Just as real,” Michael confirmed and got up as George arrived. “Do you have the drug?”  
  
“Right here. For the patient called Rain. Sherlock has spoken to the doctors, they should know how to administer it.” John handed the vial over and went back upstairs to their living room where he found Sherlock in the kitchen, busy dismantling a Banoffi pie into a bowl.  
  
“What are you doing?” John stalled, glaring at the cake terrorism taking place.  
  
“I thought an afternoon snack was in order, since we’ll have several hours to simply wait to hear how Rain responds to the ‘concoction’, unless he has an outright allergic response,” Sherlock explained.  
  
“By ruining chef’s good pie?” John couldn’t help a little nervous twist of his head to the side; it always made him uneasy when Sherlock acted odd.  
  
“Just preparing it for the next step,” Sherlock continued.  
  
“And what is the next part of that pie’s life cycle then?” John demanded.  
  
“To be eaten off you. Jumper and trousers off, please,” Sherlock said as he turned with a bowl full of mixed up pie and a wicked, wicked smile on his lips.  
  
“Oh? OH!” John’s mind actually stalled completely for a second or two, but other body parts made use of the interval to fortify themselves. He was semi hard before he managed to get his fly undone, but he got out of the trousers and kicked them aside as his jumper prepared for take-off and shortly after landed by the jeans.  
  
“Sofa.” Sherlock pointed as he deposited the bowl on the sofa table, kneeling beside it, waiting for John to comply.  
  
John shivered slightly, though the air was warm, as he lay down on the sofa, licking his lips.  
  
“It might be a little cold at first,” Sherlock warned him, “but I promise to warm you up,” and then he proceeded to swat a spoonful onto John’s left nipple, dragging it out a bit with the spoon, so it covered a fair portion of John’s chest. John couldn’t help emitting a little yelp at the cold cream, and he couldn’t help emitting a little yelp at the warm lips and tongue that followed, very eagerly lapping up what was now Sherlock’s two favourite dishes.  
  
When Sherlock was content with nipple-nibbling he ate a quarter pie off John’s stomach and then deftly removed John’s pants, spreading pie crumbs and banana pieces in a generous arc around his groin and very daintily ate them one by one, catching them with the tip of his tongue. He discovered a small flagpole in the middle of his playing field and crowned it with a huge dollop of whipped cream and toffee, following it with his tongue. He sucked happily away, hollowing out his cheeks and enjoying the effect it had on the good doctor, now writhing on the sofa beneath him.  
  
This, he realised, was real power. He could probably do anything he wanted to John right now and get away with it, so he didn’t. His second realisation was that it must be love that made him behave. He made a mental note to tell John about it when his mouth was free, there was no point in being the good boy if nobody knew it. Instead he kept John in his mouth, adding more pie now and then, moving up and down while alternately sucking and licking, and all the time drinking in the moans and whispers of endearment spilling from John’s lips. When fingers burrowed desperately in his hair, pulling warningly at it, he decided to see how the taste of John would mix with banoffi, so instead of letting go, he intensified his effort, letting his tongue lap at the tip on the upstroke and sucking himself back down. In only seconds John was bucking beneath him, unable to control his movements, his hands everywhere on Sherlock’s head, the moans becoming gasps, turning to a very long “aaaaaaahhhhhhhh,” ending in some sharp inhales as John fought to regain his breath.  
  
Meanwhile Sherlock was struggling to swallow, since there was rather a lot more than he had anticipated, or as he later deduced, it took up more of his mouth than he had allowed for. The amount was probably no more or less than when he used his hand on John, it just felt like more, like a small cut on the tongue feels like a valley. He would adjust his expectations for the next time, he concluded, and lapped up the last of the pie making John squirm and bark, apparently feeling quite ticklish for some reason.  
  
Sherlock paused and rested his forehead against John’s stomach for a minute. He was feeling dizzy and somewhat in pain. He analysed the pain and located it to his groin. He reached down and popped the button on his trousers, pulling his zipper down and quickly pulling his pants aside, giving himself much needed room to ‘unfold’, emitting a heartfelt groan of relief as he felt the air cooling him a bit, which, however, did nothing to deflate him.  
  
“John, may I lie on you?” he begged, toeing his shoes off, standing to drop his trousers and pants. He managed to get his fingers under control long enough to unbutton his shirt, dropping it on the floor as John began to get a grip of himself and smiled up at Sherlock to answer him.  
  
“Of course you can,” he whispered and widened his eyes as he regained focus, “Oh.My.God! Isn’t that painful?”  
  
“A bit,” Sherlock admitted and lowered his body on top of John’s, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss as he couldn’t help but rut just a smidgen against his hip. It drew forth a moan directly into John’s mouth, making him feel like a cathedral being filled by the most wonderful organ music.  
  
“I know your refractory period is quite a bit longer than mine,” Sherlock panted into John’s ear, “but is there any chance…?”  
  
“Sorry, no. I’m done for the afternoon,” John smiled against Sherlock’s cheek, holding him close, “but this is fine, I like this.” He emphasized his statement by finding Sherlock’s mouth, kissing him deeply while he pressed Sherlock down against his body, encouraging him to move against his groin. He may not be able to get hard for a couple of hours, but it would definitely serve as good material to think of on a rainy day.  
  
Sherlock took his words to heart and moved on top of John as if he was trying to start a camp fire with their two bodies as sticks while he kissed John so intensely that John felt his cheeks start to burn, even though Sherlock always shaved meticulously at least twice a day. The kissing grew more intense as Sherlock’s rhythm started to falter, and suddenly it stopped entirely. The body on top of John froze, and then rutted twice, three times against him before a warm, sticky feeling spread between them as Sherlock shivered and clutched at John, his mouth open in a soundless moan, his breathing temporarily definitely not boring.  
  
Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John’s neck and stayed there, heaving in air till his breathing levelled out. He continued placing small kisses to the skin under his lips, his long fingers stroking John wherever he could reach him without loosening his hug. Eventually he slowed his kisses and his cuddles till they stopped all together and their combined soft snores greeted the afternoon sun as it glided into the sitting room of 221B.  
  
When Sherlock’s phone rang it sounded like an explosion in the quiet of the flat. Sherlock’s mind came online and went from 1 to 100 in its usual fashion, not taking into consideration that it was lying on top of a 40-something doctor on a rather narrow sofa. Consequence? Sherlock Holmes, meet floor. Floor, meet Sherlock Holmes. They met, crashed, kissed, but then immediately decided to break up.  
  
John mumbled some vague protest as Sherlock got to his knees and found his phone in his trouser pocket. His voice sounded odd to his ears as he answered it, but the caller didn’t notice.  
  
“Hello. Is it you? Mr Holmes?”  
  
“Yes, of course it is,” he answered, regaining control of his voice as his brain happily catalogued why it had temporarily lost the control of it.  
  
“I’m Phillip, Dr Montague, remember our talk?” the caller asked.  
  
“Obviously,” Sherlock answered dryly, the quality of serenely bored creeping back into his voice - he was, in other words, beginning to sound like himself.  
  
“Thank you for your vial. We have double checked it in our lab, and tested small quantities on a few rats during the afternoon and you’re right. It is basically all natural substances with a severely positive effect on the neurotransmitters. We plan to submit it to the ethical board and apply for human testing as soon as…”  
  
“NO!” Sherlock screamed at him. “We do not have time for all these petty procedures and bureaucratic obstacles. There is a dead man whose murder is unsolved and people in mortal danger right now, all of which can possibly be answered if we can help Rain regain his basic balance of neural chemistry. There is NOTHING in my solution that requires the consent of a medical board, you will be giving him nothing heavier than a dose of D-vitamin if you test it on him. His parents have consented to tests in writing! He may throw up, or at worst develop an uncomfortable rash in inappropriate places, but we do NOT need permission from any medical boards. Just give him some! Now! Or do I need to come out there to down a litre of it in front of you? Come to think of it, I don’t need to provide you with incentive. I have a brother who can do that much more efficiently. Expect him within the hour, and don’t lock the front door. He’ll only break it if you do!" Sherlock pressed the off button on his phone, wondering if he could rename it “KILL!”  
  
He threw himself down in his chair, with a scream of “Arrggggghhh!”, his fingers curling upwards towards the ceiling as if he wanted to strangle the air itself. John wisely just lay on the sofa, not saying a word.  
  
Sherlock poked at his phone a few times. Too hard, too angry to hit the right button, but finally he managed to dial Mycroft and literally sneered at him. “Since you are still monitoring my phone, replay my last conversation and send some exceedingly daunting arseholes out to the Hertford clinic, or better still go yourself, to get those idiots to take action and give Raymond the drug I have painstakingly designed to help him.” As an afterthought he added, “And the case.”  
  
“Yes, brother darling,” Mycroft answered and hung up.  
  
Sherlock’s frown disappeared like clouds after a thunderstorm and was replaced by the kind of smile that the sun normally provided in the sky. He stood up and retrieved his clothes. “John, you have better get dressed. Mycroft is on his way here, or someone from his office, any minute now.” Sherlock dressed quickly and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.  
  
John surveyed his sticky stomach, but decided a shower would have to wait. He dug around on the floor and found his clothes, and he was fully dressed by the time Mycroft and Anthea calmly walked up the stairs, entered the flat and sat down in John and Sherlock’s respective usual chairs with an irritating air of ownership. Well, _John_ was irritated.  
  
“Tea?” Sherlock called from the kitchen.  
  
“Did you make it?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“Yes, just now.”  
  
“In that case, absolutely not,” Mycroft called back.  
  
“I’ll have one”, John said, figuring he could always pretend to drink it, how bad could it be? Sherlock was a chemist after all, and it was only tea. The next day John printed a label for the kettle that stated “only to be operated by a fully licensed doctor.”  
   
“Sorry,” Mycroft said as Sherlock joined John on the couch.  
  
“Obviously,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Huh?” John said.  
  
Tip-tap-tip-tap-tappitytip, Anthea went on her Blackberry.  
  
“The fake call, John, DO keep up,” Sherlock put a comforting arm around John and gave him a squeeze to make up for his apparent lack of brain matter.  
  
“Fake?” John didn’t feel he’d moved far beyond his initial ‘huh?’.  
  
“The total denial of using the drug? The idiotic claim of needing approval of the ethical board? They had me at first, but it was of course a ruse to throw off whoever is monitoring our progress, right, Mycroft? Darling brother, indeed,” Sherlock chuckled.  
  
“As per our agreement,” Mycroft nodded. “And you were right, I’m not the only one tapping your phone.”  
  
“Of course I was right,” Sherlock agreed. “And protection for Raymond?”  
  
“Michael is staying there, along with two other agents. The drug was administered to him two hours ago, and his condition is being closely monitored by some of the best doctors in the land,” Mycroft told them. John began to feel better, not quite so left out of the loop any more.  
  
“So we should know in another few hours or so. I suppose I should go out there,” Sherlock pondered.  
  
“I wouldn’t. We don’t want to attract too much attention to the place, easier to keep him safe that way. Let’s just wait and see what the doctors say.” Mycroft decreed.  
  
“So how is Greg doing?” John asked conversationally.  
  
“Much better actually,” Mycroft smiled. “As a matter of fact he asked if you wanted to pop over to see him tomorrow? I will have to put in an appearance at the office, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go see him. Want to come, Sherlock?”  
  
“Absolutely, but I’m not going to the hospital,” Sherlock smirked.  
  
“Sherlock!”  
“Sherlock, please!”  
“Good grief.”  
  
John, Mycroft and Anthea spoke at the same time, all three of them rolling their eyes at the horrible pun.

  
They spent an hour small-talking about safe topics, arguing about who should take mummy to lunch and where, wondering if they should organise some form of dinner, Mycroft emphatically refusing any kind of take-away that didn’t come from Harrods. They didn’t have time to agree on anything dinner-wise before Mycroft’s phone rang. It was from the clinic.  
  
Mycroft listened attentively, nodded a few times, and said goodbye. He looked up at Sherlock and John. “Let’s go. They need us in Hertford, now!”

 

 


	16. A fine line between….

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain responds well to the new drug, but there is a problem. There is also a solution and Sherlock comes to realise the importance of love.

 

 

 “Are we being observed?” Mycroft asked as the car pulled out, not wanting to look around.

  
“I should think so,” Sherlock answered, also pointedly glancing neither right nor left.  
  
“By whom?” John asked, feeling very proud of his grammar, quite happy to just stare at Sherlock’s mouth when he was talking. Every time he moved his lips, John felt a small twinge of possessive pride, knowing that he could make that mouth kiss him, and turn his body to jelly with the flick of a tongue.  
  
“The killer, obviously,” Mycroft said, and John immediately clung to Sherlock, sure that he would abscond from the car given the chance.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock scoffed, “I’d never run someone down on foot in these streets, particularly if they had a gun trained on me. Ease up, I’m not leaving the car.”  
  
“Yes, do ease up, John. This car is probably the safest place on earth. Not even a scud missile could penetrate the armoured doors, or even scratch these windows.” Mycroft banged his knuckles against said windows for good measure.  
  
“Are we being followed?” John wondered.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. “There are no cars following. That would be too obvious.”  
  
“Right,” John said, but didn’t feel right about it at all. He sat back in silence for the duration of the drive and left the car first when they arrived, getting out before even George and Anthea had a chance to, scanning the area for any possible danger to Sherlock. There was nothing to be seen but trees and birds. He relaxed a bit and let Sherlock out of the car. Together they entered the building where they were met by Dr Montague.  
  
“How is he?” Sherlock demanded, impatiently.  
  
“He’s becoming more cohesive, but with an element of confusion. You have to be very cautious around him, as you know he cannot handle any kind of stress.”  
  
“Obviously I know. I was the one who detected the imbalance,” Sherlock scoffed. “Let me see him, I’ll be careful.”  
  
“Right, he’s back here.” The doctor led them through several rooms, and finally through a room with the three guards and into a cosy bedroom with low lights and soft music playing. Rain was sitting up in bed, biting his nails.  
  
“Hello, Rain, remember me?” Sherlock rumbled, summoning his cheeriest voice.  
  
“I… yeah… I think so.” Rain gave up on the nail biting and looked at Sherlock. “Yes, of course, sorry sir.”  
  
“Sir?” Sherlock chuckled. “Don’t be absurd.”  
  
“S...sorry, sir.” Rain stammered.  
  
“Enough of that silliness. Sufficient to say you remember me. How are you feeling?”  
  
“I feel like layers and layers have been peeled off me,” Rain said, clutching his hair. “The pain, there’s been so much pain. I had forgotten what it’s like to not be in pain.” He looked confused, his brow furrowed.  
  
“Yes, I can imagine. The nociception must have been dominating your brain,” Sherlock acknowledged.  
  
“But what is wrong with me?” Rain pleaded.  
  
“Put in simple terms? Well, I suppose I’ll have to make it simple terms.” Sherlock sighed and weighed his words, particularly since he was getting _the_ look from John standing in the corner with his arms crossed. “Right, here’s a rough summary of your condition.” Sherlock inhaled, and John braced himself. “You are basically allergic to adrenaline, very allergic. Whenever your body produces it, it sets off a chemical reaction overloading your pain receptors. Your blood tests suggest that you probably experience so much pain it could stop an army, so whenever you get stressed, frightened or upset you become virtually catatonic because the nociceptors your body should use to signal pain, whether it be chemical, mechanical or thermal, overreacts and goes into overdrive.  
It is often and popularly said that stress can kill you. Well, in your case that is very literal. Your mind has been frozen in a state of fear, an unfortunate loop, I’m afraid. Or perhaps that was an unfortunate choice of words. You must instinctively, or at least at some level have known that fear alone would set off your adrenaline production and cause pain. So you feared fear, which made you afraid. You have not been able to break the unfortunate circle for years. Lucky for you, I’ve been able to do it with the drug I have designed and produced for you. It will counteract the dopamine production, reduce your adrenaline level, and allow your brain to function at a rational plane again. You can, however, obviously never ever go back to being a school teacher under any circumstance. That would be tantamount to suicide. Simple enough? Any questions?” Sherlock allowed himself a breath of air.  
  
“I can’t ever work again?” Rain looked at Sherlock with huge eyes.  
  
“Oh, I’m sure suitable employment can be found,” Sherlock made an effort to smile, however failing so badly at it that John wondered if he’d made Sherlock eat too much and thus suffer indigestion. Luckily the smile instantly disappeared when Sherlock noticed John’s intense glare. “My brother works for the government, he can probably find you something _meaningful_ to do with your life, or at least something that will keep you employed, salaried, functioning within the norms of society, as most people seem to prefer. Oh, and you should call your mother. I promised you would. Now, if we could please get back to the matter at hand, what – if anything – did you observe in Homewood Park when you discovered the body you called me about? I do acknowledge that it is not possible to think back to that day without causing some form of stress, but I need to know what you saw and when. It is vital, you understand. Remember, the body? Runnymede? The park?”  
  
“Yes, yes. I remember. I slept there.” Rain was getting excited, sitting up higher in his bed, clutching at the covers. ”It was a cold night, but the cold was good, it kept my body from feeling anything else, so I stayed all night on the bench out there, dosing off a bit in between, till I heard a car. There shouldn’t be a car there. Not there. It’s a pedestrian path, and it was so late, or early, nearly dawn. And the car was… oh, the noise… the lights. Oh, god, the colours! They were… so much… the lights… I hid. I had to go away, to hide, to… the lights!” Rain was panting, and small drops of sweat were forming on his brow. John noticed the signs and moved forward, placing a warning hand on Sherlock’s arm.  
  
“Not now, John. This is important,” Sherlock protested.  
  
“Sherlock, ease off. Don’t stress him! You could cause damage…”  
  
“He is remembering!” Sherlock argued and gestured towards the distressed patient.  
  
“The pain! Oh God, the pain!” Rain moaned as the door opened and Dr Montague stepped in.  
  
“Are you all right, Raymond?” Dr Montague asked Rain.  
  
“Who are you? Where am I? Why does it hurt so much?” Rain’s eyes were huge and tear filled, and the doctor simply pushed Sherlock forcefully aside, pressing a needle into the IV feeding line in Rain’s hand, while soothing him with comforting strokes across his hair. In only moments Rain slumped down in his bed, fast asleep.  
  
“What did you give him?” Sherlock demanded, fury dominating his features.  
  
“A medium dose of diazepam,” Dr Montague informed him. “He will get some much needed rest.”  
  
“I don’t need him to rest! I need answers, you bumbling idiot!” Sherlock fumed.  
  
“Sherlock!” John warned.  
  
“He can’t deliver. You know he can’t,” Dr Montague argued. “He has a long recovery period, even though your drug has been a miracle cure for him. He should be in a proper hospital where there are neurological facilities. This clinic is not set up for that. We should study his response to the drug more closely, and I need a series of MR scans to further assess…”  
  
Sherlock cut him off. “That is no use to _me_! I need answers from him tonight. I need to know what he saw and all he said was… all he said…” Sherlock’s arms were flailing as he turned to John for help and then he froze completely, his eyes widening impossibly as he stared at his love, light and inspiration. “Oh! OH!” he exclaimed, looking orgasmically ecstatic. “John, as always, as consistently always and ever you are the conductor of light in my life.”  
  
John managed a vacant stare. He had absolutely no idea what Sherlock was on about, and he communicated this fact with a shrug of his shoulder.  
  
“The lights! Of course! Oh, John. I love you. I love being loved. And because of you I now know what love can do, and to which extent, and why. How awesome another person can make you feel. Without you I would never have grasped the concept of crimes of passion.”  
  
Sherlock turned towards Dr Montague, smiling. “You are right. Let us have Rain transferred to St. Bart’s immediately. That is where he will receive the best care. And John, we’re going with him.”  
  
Sherlock’s praise made John grow several inches, but Sherlock’s smile actually scared John. This was the ‘being odd’ part that John loathed. The part where he knew that Sherlock thought he knew more than John did, and John didn’t want to ask what was going on for fear of coming off as too stupid, even though he knew that he always would be considered stupid by Sherlock. Which is why he couldn’t bear to come off as even more stupid. He desperately wanted Sherlock to praise him, and adore him as he just had, so he just kept silent, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t discover how clueless he was.  
  
“John, can you contact Bart’s and get a room for him? Actually, I need to talk to them too, so pass me the phone when you’re done. Meanwhile I’ll get a hold of Scotland Yard and have them set up additional security,” Sherlock said as he got his phone out.  
  
In half an hour they were all set up, and Rain loaded into an ambulance. Mycroft, Anthea and the guards followed in the car, while John and Sherlock rode in the back of the ambulance.  
  
John stayed silent all through the ambulance drive back to the city, and only offered minimal advice as Rain was transferred to a two man room in the Neurosciences department at Bart’s. He helped the nurse transfer him to the bed and tuck him in, but Rain didn’t stir for a second; he was completely out.  
  
Mycroft and Anthea were busy setting up the security detail around Rain’s new location till Mycroft bowed out, excusing himself to go and check on Gregory in the Intensive Ward.  
  
When John was confident that Rain was resting comfortably they turned out the lights and let him sleep.    
  
They settled down to wait.  
  
The silencer did its job very well. Only a series of muted thuds were heard as the gun emptied its contents of bullets into the bed, no hesitation, no quarters, but a determined execution was carried out. When the bullets were all spent there was a heavy silence in the room, only her breathing was heard, nervous and adrenaline fuelled.  
  
Then the lights came on – harsh and bright, and Sherlock’s voice thundered towards her, behind the curtain to the other bed, announcing her imminent doom. In the split second between the lights fully coming on and her eyes locking on Sherlock she just managed to notice that the bed was filled with duvets and pillows. No human being, no blood, no kill, no freedom.    
  
“There is a fine line between love and hatred - both born of such childish sentiment, isn’t there, Sally?”  
  
Donovan turned to face him, her hand automatically lifting the gun towards him, firing it impotently, all bullets gone.  
   
Anthea stepped out behind Sherlock, her gun fully loaded and ready to kill, should it be necessary. It was very much pointed towards Sally Donovan who froze in place.  
  
“You fell for it hard. After an affair with a low-life like Anderson you must have been such an easy plumb for Langdale to pick. Where did you meet him? Mutual friends? A night at the theatre? The local pub? I understand he wasn’t too discerning about where he found his mistresses. But you, an experienced cop, should have known better. Why didn’t you check him out before you bought into his tales of eternal love, how you were the one he’d been waiting all his life for or whatever snivel he sprouted at you to get you into his bed?”  
  
Donovan didn’t answer. But she lowered her arm, letting the gun slip from her fingers and it clattered down on the floor.  
  
“So he promised you the full package; marriage, children, the Edwardian townhouse, you to be the young beautiful wife, and when it turned out to be hot air you cried, you cried so hard it would break his heart, clutching him to you, literally bathing his shirt in your tears, only you didn’t break his heart. He had seen it before, and you read that on his face. You knew you had been had, and so you lashed out without thinking, breaking his neck before you knew you had done it. It’s quite easy, isn’t it? A pull, a turn and a bit of violent hate, or love, is all it takes. And there he lay, dead at your feet. You cleaned up the flat, locked the dog away - even you won’t kill a dog on purpose, will you Donovan? And then you waited till the dead hours, dragging his corpse out to your car and drove it off to Runnymede. Only the paths there are closed. Only emergency vehicles are allowed, so just in case anyone was watching you turned your police lights on as you drove down the path. And someone was watching. A poor, homeless man. You never saw him, but he saw you. What a shock it must have been to you to find out there was a witness. And then not know where he was till tonight.” Sherlock smirked at her. Sally was crying, but he did not care. He continued, sneering at her:     
  
“And then you truly messed up, trying to kill my brother’s future husband. Oh, big, big, big mistake.” Sherlock gestured in an upwards spiral to emphasise his words. “Well, I thought you might not understand the word humongous. He was on to you, so you had to kill Lestrade, but you could not bear to watch him die. No clean shot between the eyes, brain all over the front door to my house? No, a severed artery, as good as dead, but you’d be far away when he drew his last breath, not actually having to see it. A soft hearted murderer? How feminine and sentimental.” Sherlock shook his head at her, his nostrils flaring with indignation.   
  
“How poetic, really, that you turned out to be the freak that could not conform to society, and I get to live happily ever after with my love, and I didn’t have a hump on by back, after all.” Sherlock’s smile started out as a smirk but turned to butter as his eyes sought out John.   
  
The door opened and Mycroft wheeled Greg in. “I am a bit disappointed,” Greg said. “I had high hopes for you, Sally. Not that many good women in the force, and you went and blew it. Big time. I’m afraid that you are well and truly busted, girly. You are going down, for hard time. WHY the fuck didn’t you come to me when it happened? So you fell in love, and he screwed you over, and you killed him in a fit! The story is older than the Queen! It could have stopped there and you could have gotten off with a stern warning, a bit of community service and the loss of your job. But you had to go and try to kill Sherlock, and then me?”  
   
Sally didn’t answer, just hung her head, staring at the floor.  
  
“Oh, but she had to, didn’t you?” Sherlock answered for her. “You had access to all the evidence at the Yard, so you could easily turn the attention away from yourself. You could manipulate Anderson and even Lestrade towards other suspects, such as John. For which I will never forgive you,” he sneered. “But there was one investigator you could not sway or manipulate - me! You had to kill me. I was the greatest threat to you. And when you failed that, you turned towards your boss. It’s only fitting that you arrest her, Lestrade. She was your ingénue, take her down.”  
  
“Piss off, freak,” Sally spat at him.  
  
“Run. If you ever get out of jail and meet me or his mother, then run,” John spat back. “Or jump off a roof, I don’t care which.”  
  
Anthea slapped the cuffs on Donovan’s wrists and led her out of the room after Lestrade gave her the nod to do so.  
  
John walked over to Sherlock and hugged him so hard he lost his breath. When Sherlock found it again he whispered, “I love you too.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we finally have our killer. I hope she surprised you.


	17. A sort of epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We tie up some loose ends – and Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/promises – depending on your preferences: There are hints of military kink and some fairly innocent (!) knifeplay in this.

 

  
  
Monday afternoon Nicole Pike stood on the right side of the two-way mirror at the Yard staring at Sally Donovan. Mycroft stood beside her, a supportive hand under her elbow.  
  
“So, that little thing wrung his neck? Killed him with her bare hands?” Her voice was small, and devoid of anger.  
  
“Yes, terror often comes from the most unexpected quarters. I’m sorry I didn’t see this one sooner,” Mycroft apologised.  
  
“You were his friend, not his keeper, Lang made his own choices, literally made his own bed, and now lies in his coffin. What a waste. We would have had such a fantastic time together when my career is over.” She allowed herself a small tear.  
  
“Your career is far from over. You are only just now getting to the peak of it. I would not at all be surprised if there was a substantial ambassadorship in your near future.” Mycroft winked at her, knowing only too well how right he was.  
  
“Oh, wouldn’t that be something, Mycroft?” She smiled up at him. “I could have you and your sweet lover come visit on holidays, throw big parties and get tax write-offs for my wardrobe. Make it Paris, huh?” she winked back at him, knowing that whatever it would be, the decision was already made.  
  
“Bien sûr, ma chérie,” Mycroft assured her.  
  
Tuesday Nicole left for her current assignment in Singapore, and in the afternoon Gregory was finally released from the hospital, brought home in a cloud of cotton, blankets, love, affection, special nurses and therapists, all being met and distributed by mummy Holmes, who had personally overseen the making of the big four poster bed, making sure the sheets were straight, the pillows fluffed and the duvet light but warm. Friends were encouraged to come visit, but discouraged to be more than one at the time, or overstay their welcome.  
  
It was mostly the guys from the Yard. They both needed to see that Greg was all right, and talk about Sally. Most of them just didn’t get it. Dimmock came by to get Greg up to date on his cases, and brought the final discharge papers on John’s case, asking him to pass them on. Greg accepted. He thought it would probably be a capitol idea for Dimmock to stay far away from John and Sherlock for a while.

In the evening Greg was allowed out of bed for a light dinner with Sherlock and John in attendance. The mood was light, considering the various injuries, the loss of a friend for Mycroft and a colleague for Greg.  
  
Mummy was being mummy and fed everyone exactly what she wanted them to have, and there was not much point arguing. Mycroft kept looking nervously at Greg, and Greg kept assuring him that he was fine.  
  
During dessert, Greg brought up the case, by apologising to John.  
  
“I’m so sorry about the frame. I don’t know how she managed to manipulate the blood samples, but I’ll have our procedures reviewed to make sure no one can ever do that again. She must have got a hold of your blood somehow, somewhere,” Greg wondered, “and then labelled it as if it came from the crime scene.”  
  
Sherlock uncharacteristically looked like he was about to crawl into a hole in the ground.  
  
“What is it, Sherlock?” John wondered. “Is it related to the blood?”  
  
“Imaymmmhavehadsmeinthefridge…” Sherlock mumbled.  
  
“Huh?” Greg and John said simultaneously.  
  
“I may, just may, possibly have had a sample of John’s blood in our fridge,” Sherlock admitted.

“I haven’t given blood. When did you get that?”

“You were sleeping,” Sherlock explained. “I needed a control group for an experiment I was conducting at the time, and my own blood wasn’t compatible, so I borrowed a bit of yours, and labelled it. Just a bit. Hope you don’t mind.”  
  
“We’ll talk about this when we get home,” John said ominously.  
  
Sherlock already had seven good ideas of how to get John to forget that when they got home, and he smirked a bit as he deduced the outcome.  
  
“So she had the blood, and we already know she can manipulate a Yardman into arresting poor innocent people from Baker Street, right Greg?” Sherlock reminded him, needlessly. Greg blushed a bit at the memory of how Moriarty had manipulated them all. “So by pushing the right buttons she got Dimmock to arrest John.  With a bit of luck that would throw me off the case, and divert any attention from the investigation that could have led me in her direction. She was smarter than I gave her credit for - or Dimmock is dumber, but I doubt it.”  
  
“So she got my blood when she planted the poison at home?” John suggested.  
  
“Good, John!” Sherlock praised. “That’s exactly what she did. While the police had our flat closed off to us she had all the access she needed.”  
  
John shuddered at the thought of a killer prowling unchecked around in their flat.

“She had her tracks pretty well covered,” Sherlock admitted. “I really didn’t start to suspect her till she turned up at the funeral, but stayed away from the lunch. They would obviously have recognised her at Boisdale’s. It was quite apparent that Langdale used to take his mistresses there. So she couldn’t chance it. I wonder what apology she used, will you ask Anderson, Greg?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I will,” Greg nodded. “Anything else she slipped up with?”  
  
“Well, the obvious,” Sherlock smirked. “When I called her at the Yard to ask for guards for Rain’s room, giving her the false room number, she turned up, didn’t she? But not to guard him. The little fool walked right into my trap.”  
  
“And not a moment too soon,” Mycroft said, getting up to wheel Greg through to the living room where a fire was burning, a nip in the air even though it was now technically spring.  
  
Mummy Holmes claimed seniority over Mycroft and served everyone coffee and petit fours for dessert, urging Sherlock to have four since they were so small. He glowered at her and slipped three of them into his pocket in a napkin.   
  
During the coffee, after the meal, Sherlock and Greg were in deep conversation. John assumed it was about the details of the case. He found out the next day what it had really been about.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock?” Mycroft waved to get his attention. “You’ll have to come here to finish your therapy with Tom. He’ll be working here almost full time till Gregory is restored. Do you have much to go?”  
  
“Doubt it. I’ve been doing my exercises and I have nearly full mobility back, so maybe just once or twice, then he can concentrate fully on Greg.” Sherlock shrugged.  
  
“Yippee,” Greg said, without much enthusiasm.  
  
John and Sherlock bid them all goodnight, and Sherlock had to promise to take his mother to lunch the following day. She was staying till Greg was better, so Mycroft could resume his duties for the nation. There had been a bit of a drop in the currency rates lately, and mummy was dead set against that, knowing only too well the mechanics behind currency speculation between nations. She told Mycroft to ‘get in there and fix it.’

However, the next morning Mycroft turned up at Baker Street right after breakfast, in a _mood_.  
  
 “Sherlock! Where are you?” Mycroft looked around, spotting Sherlock in the still pristine kitchen, drying dishes (Sherlock had indeed been able to make John forget about the blood sample the night before, but then he had inconveniently remembered it in the morning). “Oh, there you are. You talked to Gregory about having children? Telling him he owed his life to mummy, and should repay her thusly! Are you mad? You guilt tripped him! He’s hell bent on placating her now. I shall have you posted to Kandahar for an interminable time, emptying latrines for the army!” Mycroft roared.  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but John stepped in front of him. “You will do absolutely nothing to Sherlock. If you bully him again, I shall personally inform your mother. And you won’t enjoy dealing with me either.” John folded his arms looking up at Mycroft.  
  
“Are you threatening _me_? Seriously?” Mycroft’s expression was a mix of scorn and anger. “How dare you? Do you have any idea of how much power…”  
  
John wasn’t impressed and cut off the tirade. “I have baby pictures of you, Mycroft Holmes. And a popular blog. Do the math.” John smiled, and Sherlock positively beamed at him, he looked utterly proud of John, hugging him from behind, resulting in a doctorial blush.  
  
Mycroft looked crestfallen, for once speechless and he just glared at the both of them, before he turned to leave. He found his voice again as he reached the door and exited. “You two absolutely deserve each other.”

\---*---

  
Gladys gave birth near the end of May, and in preparation John had pilfered a full surgeon’s gear at Bart’s. Sherlock was delighted when he pulled it out from the cupboard, markedly less delighted when it was followed by a nurse’s uniform that was then shoved at him. John had to promise not to take any photos.  
  
They were born and named in this order: Galadriel, Gail, Gabi, Gracie (nicknamed Doom, her they gave to Mycroft and Greg), Gabriella, Grant, Grayson and finally, the runt, Gladstone.  
  
They kept Gladstone for themselves. John used the excuse that the runt needed special feeding and attention, and by the time he was well grown and healthy he had bonded irretrievably with both John and Sherlock. And vice versa. Besides, he was a good sniffer dog. He never failed to find out where John had hid the bangers.  
  
The other six were sent to Nicole where they, and their mother, became the toast of Paris. They are probably the only dogs to have crossed the tunnel with MI5 escorts, but George and Michael didn’t mind. It was a nice change of pace. 

\--- *** ---

 **Actual Epilogue** – Baker Street, Twelfth Day the following winter

”Hi, welcome home, how was it?” John asked as Sherlock swanned through the door. John drew the housecoat a little tighter around himself, after putting the newspaper down on the coffee table.  
  
“It was a stupendous meal, of course, always is, I just don’t know why Mycroft insists on these brotherly lunches now and then. It appears he feels obliged to have them.”  
  
“Yes, it’ll come to you one day,” John nodded and pulled his lips a bit to the left in a gesture some might have called a wry smile if they’d known John.  
  
“Were you forgiven for the Christmas presents?” John tried to hide his smile.  
  
“What is there to forgive? You told me to get something fun, something people didn’t normally buy for themselves, but something they had some use for.” He ticked the points off on his fingers.  
  
“Yes, and that does not mean a six pack of lube and a glow in the dark dildo. I didn’t mind, but I think your mummy was a little shocked, and Mycroft looked mildly offended,” John reminisced.  
  
“It made sense. With your refractory period so much longer than mine, you can use the dildo while you wait for your recovery, if I get bored. My father is of an age where you don’t so much talk about a refractory period as a refractory season, so I should think mummy would find hers very handy, and Mycroft always walks as if he has a stick up his arse, I thought it was about time he tried it. Anyway, Greg seemed delighted with the various functions on it. And I made sure they were all of different colours so no one gets them mixed up. ”  
  
“Yeah, well, never the less I’m buying the presents next Christmas, ok?” John said to close that issue.  
  
Sherlock let it go and removed his coat and threw it at the peg behind the door, never failing to miss it. He toed his shoes off and left them by the coat. “Have I been faulty in keeping appointments lately?” he wondered out loud as he cursorily glanced at the headlines in the paper by his chair.  
  
“You haven’t been more late than the average velociraptor, no. Not that I’ve noticed anyway,” John shrugged. “Why?”  
  
“He gave me a new watch. I thought it was a snide hint at being late for engagements and mucking up his schedule. He doesn’t take kindly to that.”  
  
“It’ll come to you,” John repeated and smirked at him.  
  
“You’re being weird,” Sherlock stated and glared at him. “Anyway, just grabbing a dressing gown, tea then? Just four sugars for me. I had dessert.”

Sherlock stalled like a cat hearing a can opener in the doorway to the bedroom. He stared at the ceiling, then the bed, and then he turned around and walked back in to the living room, his eyes seeking out John who still sat on the sofa looking exceedingly smug. Only now the housecoat was gone and John was bare-chested, barefooted and wearing his army Khaki trousers, grinning broadly at Sherlock.  
  
“Why is there a hook in the ceiling and a pair of leather cuffs on the bed?” Sherlock asked, his breathing shallow, his eyes greedily taking in John’s appearance.  
  
“For the same reason there is a struggling cobra in your pants right now,” John smirked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“For me?” Sherlock panted.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock. Of course for you. Just look at what the mere sight is doing to you. Bedroom, now! Shirt off!” John ordered in a voice that sent a shiver up Sherlock’s spine as he got up from the sofa. Before John was fully standing Sherlock was already in the bedroom, and another set of buttons had suffered a sudden and permanent loss of shirt.  
  
“Stand still,” John ordered as he took the handcuffs from the bed. They were lined with lamb’s wool, and a heavy chain connected them. “Hands out, in front of you.”  
  
Sherlock was staring at John, his eyes huge, his pupils blown, as he did as commanded. John fastened the right one first, securing its straps tightly before fastening the left one. He got a chair and climbed it, lifting the chain up to the hook, securing it. The length was perfect; Sherlock was standing solidly on the floor, but his arms were stretched fully over his head. He shivered slightly as John got down and ran a hand over his back.  
  
“Now, the ground rules are,” John began as his fingers roamed Sherlock’s torso, fingers pulling at the nipples, groping firm muscles, “that you tell me if anything hurts. You can choose a safe word, or just say ‘red’. That will make me stop whatever I’m doing immediately. Otherwise you don’t talk, unless I tell you to. Do you understand?”  
  
Sherlock just nodded, staring wide-eyed at John.  
  
“Good, then I can proceed.” He let his fingers trace the outline of Sherlock’s erection on his trousers. He had been hard since he saw the hook and John couldn’t wait to get his hands on it, but he willed himself to be patient. “Do you think you can stand still when I have taken your trousers off and you are naked for me? If not I have a spreader I could use.” A slight shiver ran the length of Sherlock’s body, and he nodded again. John took that as a signal to proceed, so he opened the belt and unzipped the trousers. He popped the button and pulled the trousers down, instructing Sherlock to lift his feet one at a time so he could take them off. He threw them on the chair and turned to grope Sherlock through the pants. They were already moist with pre-come.  
  
“Oh, you like this. You like getting undressed, don’t you? You like getting naked for me. You are so hard your pants are about to burst.” He looked at Sherlock, but was unable to get eye contact; the aquamarine orbs were lidded and unseeing. He was panting heavily and shivering every time John gave him the slightest touch.  
  
“You know what? I don’t think I want to take these pants off.” John said and moved back a step. He allowed himself a small smile as he saw Sherlock’s brow furrow.  
  
“I think I’ll cut them off instead.” Sherlock’s head came up and his eyes opened to stare at John as he drew his army knife out of the drawers, unsheathing it and bringing it over to Sherlock. He let the broad blade glide down along Sherlock’s stomach muscles before he let the cold metal slide under the edge of his pants, moving it to the hip where he turned the serrated blade out, slicing his way easily through the cotton fabric, concentrating with narrowed eyes on his task. He repeated his actions on the other side, and the pants fell away in tattered pieces, leaving Sherlock naked. John lifted Sherlock’s chin with two fingers and, stepping close, claimed his lips in a kiss, biting down on the lower lip before pushing his tongue through and claiming Sherlock’s mouth. He hummed into it while he buried his fingers in the dark hair, cupping the head in his hand while inhaling Sherlock’s scent and deepening the kiss, feeling Sherlock’s tongue respond to his own. Reluctantly he eventually pulled away, panting, placing one last soft kiss to the lush, reddened lips. He took a moment to adjust himself before he put the knife away and turned to admire his work. Sherlock was trembling, his head hung down against his chest, his eyes were closed, but his mouth was open. His erection was straining against his stomach, dripping visibly. John licked his lips, oh how he would love to lick it, but he had other plans.  
  
Sherlock didn’t even hear the faint click as John took a photo. He just had to have this on his phone. Simply had to.  
  
“I bet you could come on the spot if I told you to,” John whispered in Sherlock’s ear as he stepped close behind him letting his hands roam over Sherlock’s torso. “But let’s see how far this gets you…” he teased as he produced a bottle of lube from his pocket, coating the fingers of his right hand. He used his foot to nudge Sherlock’s feet apart, spreading his legs. He held Sherlock from behind with his left arm as he prodded at his entrance with two fingers, pushing them in incrementally till he felt the little nub. He leant forward and captured an earlobe between his teeth as he started a thorough and deep prostate massage. He was glad he had a good hold on Sherlock, because his knees buckled for a second, but John held him up, though he had to let the earlobe go. “Don’t worry, love. You won’t fall. There’s a stainless steel cross beam upstairs holding that hook in place, it can handle five hundred pounds, so just let it take your weight if you can’t stand, ok?”  
  
“Uh, uh,” Sherlock managed to moan in response, leaning back at John, giving him better access to his long neck. John understood the invitation and kissed his way up to the jaw line and back down again. Sherlock started to pant quite heavily in time with John’s movements inside him and John lowered his left hand to his balls, cupping them in his hand.  
  
“Oh God, Sherlock! You’re almost there already, aren’t you? Can you come from just this? My fingers inside you?” he asked as he increased the pressure minutely, but enough to draw a gasp from Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock tried to answer, but the sound he managed didn’t translate into any known language, so John decided to help him along. He let his fingers trail up the length of Sherlock’s erection, using his thumb to spread the moisture at the tip all over the head before closing his hand fully around it. Sherlock bucked wildly into his hand, the chain rattling audibly, but the hook held firm, as John had promised.  
  
“Easy, I got you,” John soothed him, using his own body to help Sherlock keep his balance he stepped as close as he could while still giving his hands room to work. Sherlock’s head was still bent as far back as it could go, his hair touching his back and John bent to bite down on the straining part between shoulder and neck, his teeth sinking in to the pale skin, while his tongue lapped greedily at it. He stroked Sherlock’s length firmly as his fingers moved inside him. He hadn’t given him more than four or five full strokes before Sherlock shuddered and came hard, moaning and quivering. His knees buckled completely from under him and he hung helplessly and quivering from the cuffs as John stroked him through it, milking him with expert movements both inside and outside, humming against his shoulder, his teeth letting go in favour of small consoling kisses to the shivering skin. Sherlock’s moans eventually subsided and John gently pulled his fingers out. He helped Sherlock regain his footing before he finally turned to himself. He opened his zipper with trembling fingers and pulled his erection free easily since he was going commando in the khakis. He was so hard he was ready to burst. He’d been hard nearly all morning while installing the heavy hook, his mind filled with images of what he was planning, and which had actually just happened. He rubbed himself with his lubed up fingers and moaned out loud at the mere touch, and then he pushed into Sherlock in one quick move.  
  
Sherlock gasped out loud, the chain rattling as his arms pulled, his whole body shifting between ragged shock and violent spasms as his oversensitive insides were being filled with John. John struggled to hold on to him, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, while moaning out loud. “Oh shit, oh shit! Jesus. Fucking hell, Sherlock… Jesus!” John nearly howled, pushing in and out, knowing this would be embarrassingly short. When Sherlock’s knees buckled again he was pushed hard down on John, causing John to fold his arms around Sherlock’s lean frame, clutching him tightly to him as he rammed into him, his orgasm so imminent already that he couldn’t see straight. A mere ten seconds later it was upon him, and he only managed to growl a warning “Sherlock… Fuck. Fuck!” before burying himself deep inside his lover, shaking with want as he emptied himself in long spurts.  
  
John rested his face against Sherlock’s back, still holding him in a death grip as he swayed from the hook. It took him a while to regain his breath, but eventually, he loosened his hold, kissed the skin under his lips and carefully pulled out of Sherlock.  
  
He supported Sherlock to almost stand on shaky legs before John opened the buckles on the cuffs, catching Sherlock in his arms, helping him to the bed.  
  
It was less than fifteen minutes after John had hung Sherlock on the hook that he lay panting and wrung out on the bed, his hair matted with sweat, his hands grabbing the rim of the ice blue fleece blanket with silk edgings that John had covered him with, pressing it against his chin. John thought it was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen as he sat beside him, stroking the hair away from the forehead, gently cleaning him with a damp towel.  
  
It was another ten minutes before Sherlock finally got it together so much that he could talk again.  
  
“Good God, John. What was that? Is it my birthday?” he managed a weak smile.  
  
“It is actually,” John grinned. “Deduce a little, why don’t you! Can’t believe you didn’t catch on to that before now, Mr Genius. The watch from Mycroft? The hook, cuffs and blanket from me? But if you like, we can celebrate your birthday on a monthly basis, as far as I’m concerned, Sherlock.“ John leant down and kissed him lightly on the lips. “If this is what you want?”  
  
“It would appear that this… whatever you call it… is quite… appealing to me. At least it has a certain effect.”  
  
“Oh, yes,” John laughed. “I dare say it does. I wasn’t entirely unaffected by it myself,” he said.  
  
“I noticed,” Sherlock smiled weakly. Then he startled and looked up at John. “Sod it, John, what the heck am _I_ going to think of for _your_ birthday now?” Sherlock wondered out loud as he pulled John down to lie beside him under his new blanket.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday party you may read about in the stand alone story of John Watson’s birthday. I can’t quite leave these boys alone. Besides, Mummy Holmes would never forgive me if we don’t get her some grandkids somehow. 
> 
> Thank you for your consideration.
> 
> And thank you very much if you have left a comment.


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